Ragnarok
by The Fighting Irishman
Summary: *The Sequel to DETENTE, ZUGZWANG, and AEQUITAS.* War engulfs the Commonwealth. And as the maelstrom rages, the General of the Minutemen seeks to hold onto the fragile peace he cultivated in the Commonwealth. But while he is the beacon of hope and civilization, his greatest foe represents something much darker and, perhaps, much more human...The Long Night has begun.
1. The Long Night Begins

A/N: I own nothing except the laptop I wrote this story on.

The one thing they never tell you is just how loud guns really sound.

You try to keep yourself busy, working away aimlessly on some small mechanical derring-do, but the guns sound like drums in the distance. It is an orchestra of violence, with the larger guns punctuating the staccato fire of smaller guns with their deep, thunderous bass. Every now and then, the room flashes white, as the gunpowder shot illuminates the room with a pallid glow. There are shouts in the distance, both above you and below you.

You know the drill. Every time the air raid siren begins to go off, you and the others deemed "non-essential" to the attack are ushered in the safety of the Castle catacombs or otherwise indoors. It is little more than a safety measure for a few; most everyone in the Castle is capable of fighting in some way or form. The truth is that this measure is designed to keep you out of the way. To keep you from distracting men and women as they partake in a very serious affair.

And for the longest time, you obeyed every word. You listened.

But you were always naturally curious. Both for the grotesque and for the bizarre and the things We Weren't Meant To Know. And because of that yearning, because of that curiosity, tonight you do something that you never thought you would ever do.

You disobey the General.

You walk to the door, taking a deep breath to compose yourself, and you fling it open. The shockwave from one of the fired guns nearly slams the door back in your face, instead catching you in the shoulder. Ignoring the smarting pain, you force the door back open and step out into the maelstrom.

It's worse than you imagined.

Men and women alike, dressed in what amounts to the Minutemen uniform, race from station to station carrying shells to be loaded into the artillery guns. They yell and shout to one another, both words of encouragement as well as impassioned pleas to pick up the pace. There is a roar, and you see the super mutant Strong heaving expended shell casings over the side of the Castle walls. The heat from the expended shots must be unbearable; the mutant barely seems to notice. He is roaring and laughing at the thought of the carnage that awaits those on the receiving end of the cannons.

You see Sheffield, the recently-promoted Quartermaster of the Castle, racing back and forth, furiously cursing about men and women stomping on his plants and the gardens that provide so much food and produce both to the Commonwealth citizens as well as the Minutemen and the Brotherhood of Steel soldiers that fight on the frontline. He is a noble man, but he is not a soldier. Part of his ravings about the tomatoes, you think, is a way for him to think about something other than the horrors of what is going around him. He does not see you as he runs past, howling about how a couple of Minutemen have stepped on some razorgrain saplings.

In the center of everything is the radio tower, and there is Jonathan. He's been there as long as you can remember, that rancher hat tilted awkwardly on his head. He's normally chewing on a sheave of razongrain, but right now the only thing he's using his mouth for is barking orders back and forth on the radio line. It was only right before the start of the war that the Minutemen managed to get radio lines established on a two-way basis: now he spends just about every waking hour coordinating attack plans for the defenders. You can't remember the last time that Jonathan just sat back with a beer in one hand and a cigar perched in his lips as he read off the "Weekend Update" for the amusement of any Commonwealth listener.

"FIRE!"

The titanic shout is enough to cut through the mania around you. You look up, and there is Danse. He looks nothing like the stern yet kind-hearted man whom you look up to as a sort of father figure: he is practically hanging over the edge of the battlements, his face twisted into a mask of rage and warrior spirit. Spittle flies from his mouth with each syllable, and he is pacing back and forth along the battlements above you like a caged Deathclaw. You knew that he had a commanding presence, but you never knew just how powerful his voice really was. He turns towards the line of cannons that dot the western wall, facing towards the interior of the Commonwealth, and lets loose a monumental roar.

" _FIRE THE ROW!"_

The Row. That line of fifteen cannons that honeycomb the edge of the western wall. Each cannon fires a single cannonball with nothing explosive inside it: instead, a near-perfect unison of fifteen 18 inch cannonballs are fired towards their target, with one purpose and one purpose only: to wreak havoc.

There is a reason that the guns have another nickname: The Murderer's Row.

On their lonesome, cannons within the Row are not that loud. They leave a ringing in the ears. But they do not have a profoundly teeth-rattling power to them the way that the legendary guns out to the west possess. But when fired together, it sounds like drums from the heavens announcing the Second Coming.

You stagger away, and nearly bump into that crazy fighter Cait. She's roaring in anger right now, a veritable impotence in her rage. Cait is no artillery woman: she howls that she is only useful during a close quarters fight, and with no other option she reduces herself to howling obscenities towards those that the cannons are firing at. The men and women in the Castle do not dread her presence; the sound of her voice invokes a sort of berserker rage, a coldness that makes it easier to load cannons that are designed to cause maximum damage and destruction. She doesn't see you, too busy cursing at Major Danse to get his sorry arse together and to set them bastards on fire.

He doesn't really listen to her. You notice that he never does, at least in a firefight.

You turn your eyes towards the western side of the Castle, where every bit of artillery is firing outwards. You notice that, in the midst of this hellish atmosphere, there hasn't been a shot fired towards the Castle. You know, deep in your soul, that you don't want to see what is visible if you were to climb up the battlements and look. You know this. You _know_ this.

And yet you climb up anyway.

Far away in the distance, you see fire. Jamaica Plains is burning. It burns like a great bonfire in the night, and if you stare at it long enough you can practically feel the heat wash over you and scorch your skin. In the air above the city, tracer rounds dance across the sky like roman candles, spiraling out into lazy, glowing embers. Every now and then, the light from explosions illuminates the ground around the city, and you can make out little ant-like figures fighting and shooting and dying in the mud and the dreck that was once a city that had a future.

There is a boom, from somewhere deep in the distance, and you watch in awe and horror as one of the largest buildings in the city just…vanishes. One second it was there, and the next second it is a shower of debris, fire and concrete. All ripped apart by a direct hit. You try to convince yourself that there was no one inside that building, but you know that you're lying to yourself. You try to convince yourself that you didn't see little figures sent flying high into the air, like chess pieces send flying by a wrathful loser. But you're lying to yourself.

"Izzy."

The voice is quiet and calm, and yet it cuts through the mania like a hot knife. You feel a warm hand on your shoulder. You turn around, and flinch at the sight.

It's him.

He stands above you, dressed in the full regalia of what his position asks of him. His gloves are dark, and there is trace element of gunshot residue on them. He's been helping people load the rounds into the cannons. His outfit is caked with mud and his hair is ratty and sweaty. His cheeks are smudged, and there is a gentle sheen of gunpowder that rests on him like ashfall. It's probably all over you too, at this point. But you don't notice that. You only see his eyes.

Those haunted, sad, and tired eyes. The same eyes that let you know that your efforts to save the Commonwealth had resulted in a grave mistake, a mistake that you never had planned for. You cannot tear your gaze away from them, and you realize that your mouth is slightly agape in fear and shock. You wonder if he is going to yell at you.

But instead he shakes his head slowly, silently, and sighes. It is a deep and rolling sound, as if it is coming from somewhere deeper within him than just his flesh and blood. It seems to come from his soul. He looks you in the eye, and speaks only once.

"You need to go inside. Please."

You feel the tears start to well up in your eyes, and you wrap him up in a bearhug, as if the very act of hugging him will save you. There is a pause, and he returns the embrace for a moment. For a sweet moment, you are at peace.

But then he lets go. Someone calls for him, and he looks you in the eye one last time. The message is clear.

 _Go. Run._

You start bawling after the first sprinted step.

The tears stream down your face as you fumble with the door, only to realize that the doorknob is broken. You let out a cry of primal fear and anger, and you kick the door down. It was on a rusty hinge, and the door is knocked askew for you to run back inside. To safety. Whatever that even means. You race for your bedroom. You grab your battered Jangles doll, and you find yourself slumping in the corner. You start screaming. You keep crying.

You are alone.

You are Isabel Cruz. You were once the Mechanist. You were once an unwitting instigator of disaster in the Commonwealth, only to be rescued and granted a mercy you didn't think you deserved by the magnanimous leaders of the Minutemen. You were given a job to both work on mechanical devices in the Castle, as well as serve off a form of penance for the robots that nearly destroyed the Commonwealth you pledged to save. You worked off the debt rather quickly, but neither you nor the leaders of the Minutemen particularly cared that your "contract" has long expired. You remain at the Castle, at this point, because you simply cannot imagine yourself anywhere else in the world. You have a future.

And none of that matters.

As you huddle in the corner of your room, cuddling the small doll given to you by the man who spared your life, you scream and you cry and you plead to whatever almighty power that is out there to stop the noise. To stop the bombings. To stop this awful, frightening war that threatens to rip the Commonwealth asunder. Anything, _anything_ to make it all be peaceful and quiet again.

No one answers.

Because you are Isabel Cruz, and you are still just a young and frightened girl trying to survive in a broken world that threatens once again to rend itself in a blaze of hellfire and Armageddon. You know this to be true.

And you know that, no matter your pleadings, no matter your desperate and frightened and pathetic crying, you cannot change anything.

Because this is war.

And war never changes.

A/N: And so it begins…


	2. Where They Stand

A/N: I own nothing except the laptop I wrote this story on.

It was so quiet in the aftermath of a bombing. Long after the ringing in the ears subsided, that was the first and most present reality. The silence was deafening, and it was unnerving. It gave a sense of detachment from what had happened before, as if it was all a bad dream. But the sight of the expended shells or the layers of gunpowder littering the ground of the Castle was proof positive that what had happened had indeed happened, and it was real. It had been terrifyingly loud. And now it was terrifyingly quiet.

The Commonwealth could finally exhale.

The only real sound that mattered right now was the squawking and static coming from the tower radio. A small cluster of people surrounded the radio man's position, each of them listening in to the report. Each of them critical to the defense of the Commonwealth, and each of them utterly dependent on each other. And yet, all the same, they couldn't be more different.

The first one to speak was the woman, as she adjusted her beret.

"Well? Did we get them?"

This is Colonel Ronnie Shaw. She has been a Minuteman longer than most people in the Commonwealth have been alive. A zealous and strong woman, Shaw is also intransigently set on a particular way of doing things. She left the Minutemen briefly because of ideological dispute, taking with her the best drill instructor mindset that the Minutemen ever had. The organization shriveled without her, and it was only because of a miraculous rebirth that she was convinced to forgive the incompetent louts that kicked her out in the first place. She is stubborn and set in her ways. She believes in total war, and will not rest until the last Quincy Boy has a bloody and unmarked grave in the Glowing Sea.

"Patience, Colonel. Remember that it takes some time for the radio lines to get back up after a bombing."

This is Major Danse. He is a man at war with himself: for what he had thought was his entire lifetime, he was a dedicated follower and believer in the Brotherhood of Steel's mission. But mere months ago, his world was shattered with the revelation that he was a in actuality a Synth, a creation of the reviled Institute that he had sworn to help eradicate. Excommunicated from the Brotherhood of Steel, he has fallen in with the Minutemen both out of a sense of devotion to the man who spared him…as well as a desperate search to reaffirm meaning to his life. All but a select and cherished few are unaware of this turmoil under the surface: on the outside and in his dealings with others, Danse is level-headed, stern yet fair, and frequently finds himself as the salve to the raging spitfire that is Colonel Shaw.

Once upon a time, many a Minuteman was uncertain with his promotion to Captain of the Castle: now none can imagine a person handling things with the level-headed reliability that he does. Everything about him is meticulously and fastidiously well-kept. His uniform is kept as clean and unwrinkled as possible. He keeps his hair and beard from becoming a mane, and his posture is ramrod straight. He is a cossumate professional, and a career soldier.

He is not an outsider. He is one of them. He is respected and a pillar of authority in these trying times. That is why he is entrusted with the decision to give fire orders to the Row, or even to the legendary Ol' Bessie out to the west. No one else has the fortitude to pull it off.

"Patience, my ass." Ronnie snorted. "You saw the bombs last night. Hell, you were the ones ordering the fire. Did you see the building that went up from Ol' Bessie last night? That looked big. Bet it was their high command."

"Quincy Boys don't have a centralized field command, Colonel." Danse said. "They keep moving around, almost daily. It's come to the point where we're going to have to destroy the city in order to save it."

"Got the link up." Jonathan, the radio man, said. He tapped his microphone. "Jamaica Star One, this is Overlord. Report, this is Overlord. Confirm status report, over?"

There is a rush of static. A voice can be heard, though there are static bursts that punctuate every sentence.

" _Confirm, Overlord. This is Star One. Reassessing situation as we speak. *KSSSHT* Early reports too soon to call, but looking like_ _*BZZT*-ssive casualties on the other side._ "

The voice belongs to Preston Garvey, the field leader of the Minutemen. In a way, it is a perfectly fitting position: when the Minutemen were so few that the order lived and died with his every breath, Preston Garvey carried the flag with unwavering conviction and devotion to the ideals of what the Minutemen _could_ be. These are the harsh realities of the Commonwealth: idealism is often the first thing to die, followed shortly after by innocence. But in a rare gleam of light, Garvey's idealism was rewarded with a chance encounter by a Vault Dweller. Now the Minutemen are no longer a joke, a mean-spirited insult towards dimwitted inhabitants of the Commonwealth ("Oh, that's a great idea, man. Just like joining the Minutemen."): they are the emblem of hope and stability in a chaotic world. Preston Garvey's relentless enthusiasm for everything that the Minutemen can be and what they once were can be tiring, even to his closest companions.

But there is no one more reliable in the field, and every Minuteman – man or woman – would dig through a brick wall with a wooden spoon if he ordered them to. Because they know that he'd be working that wall right next to them.

"Understood, Star One. Status of the Constellation?"

" _Murky, Overlord. Will be able to stargaze better when the dust clears. All quiet now on the front. Will radio in with future details. Star One over and out."_

"Wonderful." Ronnie said, crossing her arms across her chest. "So we've got no flippin' clue as to how many Quincy Boys we snuffed, and Garvey doesn't know what his strength is."

"It's pretty much par for the course, Ronnie." Danse replied. "Jamaica Plains has swapped hands several times over the last few months. This isn't the first time that we've had this exchange with Star One, and I highly doubt that it's going to be the last if we keep doing things the way we've been doing."

"But it's _working._ " Shaw said. "We're killin' _scores_ of Quincy Boys over there!"

"And yet they have scores of reinforcements." Danse replied calmly. "So it's a bit of a wash. And the Castle doesn't have infinite artillery rounds, you know. These things need to be conserved, and built."

"And if we sit and wait for that all to happen, then they're gonna take their infection up into the north." Shaw snapped. "You saw how panicky things got in Diamond City when they heard the Covenant rumors. We can _not_ let the Jamaica Line get breached again. They stay south, and with their backs pressed up against the Glowing Sea. They start getting traction up north, and we're gonna have to wall ourselves in the cities and sacrifice the countryside. And that means we're dealing with constant siege warfare. We have to keep _attacking,_ Danse."

"And when we run out of rounds, then it will be a moot point." Danse replied.

"So we seem to be at an impasse." Shaw scoffed, throwing up her arms in exasperation. She turned towards the other figure. "Well, sir? What do you think?"

He hadn't spoken once during this impromptu meeting of the war council. In fact, he wasn't even standing up: he had chosen a chair right next to Jonathan, and had been quietly scribbling notes on a looseleaf sheet of paper that he'd put down on the desk. He looked up at them all. His expression was rather blank.

"If we're at an impasse, then perhaps we'd better look at ways to split the difference, because both of you have a point."

This is the General of the Minutemen. Nathanael Greene. He is the Man Out of Time, the Sole Survivor of Vault 111. He is a rarity in many ways: he is the last remnant of the World Before The Fire, and there are times where his judgment seemed geared to not repeat the mistakes of the past. He is the de facto and _de jure_ leader of the Commonwealth, though he insists on the legitimacy of the coalition between the Brotherhood of Steel and the Minutemen in governing. Every person in the Commonwealth respects him, and he is someone that every parent wishes his or her sons will grow up to be. But it is more than just respect that is at the root of the peoples' admiration for him.

He is loved.

But he is tired. Though he presents an unbreakable façade to the general public, those that are lucky enough to be permitted into his inner circle can see the weight of the world on his shoulders and the incomparable strain that it places on him. His hair is longer and shaggier. His eyes are slightly sunken, with dark circles forming under them even in the best of times. He is quieter, and though he smiles there are times where it does not reach his eyes. He is already the veteran of one war. Those that know him privately wonder if he can survive another.

More often than not, he finds himself in this position that he is in right now, sitting at the desk as his two trusted advisors war with one another. He is constantly the mediator between the two sides that Colonel Shaw and Major Danse represent. And the knowledge that their actions – the three of them, no more and no less – in dictating policy for this war would break lesser men.

But all the same, he does not give up. And that is his greatest strength. He can't give up. He simply does not know how.

"Then what's the middle ground, sir?" Danse asked. "Because, with respect, Colonel Shaw and I are having trouble finding it."

"We need to keep the guns trained on Jamaica Plains in case they try something. But we also need to start exploring offensive alternatives, because otherwise we are going to run out of artillery just like Danse suggests." He said. He looked over at Danse. "Any suggestions?"

"It doesn't look inviting, sir." Danse said. "Our friends are all scattered to the wind. MacCready is up in Salem with Barney Rook, and the two of them are basically holding the city of Salem down by themselves. Preston is locked down in Jamaica Plains, and to take him out of there is to expose the men to a rupture in stability that they simply cannot afford. Strong is _not_ a military leader for any sort of operation. He's a walking weapon, with no discernable impulse control. We need him here as a last resort."

"What about Deacon?"

"Unlikely. He is trying to get the Railroad up and running as a counter-intelligence agency against the Quincy Boys. At best he'd be a joint-operations leader, but we can't pull him away from his team now."

"Hancock?"

"No chance. He's keeping Goodneighbor safe and secure. He's the only one that can manage that place, anyway. We remove him and place someone like, say, Knight Commander Rhys, and we're going to have anarchy."

Danse wrinkled his nose, making his feelings for the recently promoted Brotherhood soldier known. Rhys was a stubborn mule of a man, and he had been one of the first to disassociate himself from the former Paladin when his Synth nature was revealed to the Brotherhood. To Rhys, the Brotherhood is life. And though the Brotherhood has eased some of its hardline policy towards Synths (at least within the Commowealth), changing beliefs is much more difficult than changing policy. Danse is not the sort to hold a grudge. But even he is capable of bitterness, and that feeling is palpable whenever the topic of the Brotherhood comes up within his earshot.

"No. No, Rhys would be a disaster." The General agreed.

"Sooo…what are we deciding on, then?" Shaw asked. Because I'd really like for something to get done in the near future. Otherwise, we're stuck with nothing. Hell, do we even know who the leader of the Quincy Boys is?"

"Uncertain. All I've got is an alias." Danse said. "A captured Quincy Boy managed to spit that one out at his captor before he overdosed on a cyanide capsule he'd been hiding on his person."

"Well, what was the alias?" Shaw asked.

"The Man in Black." Danse said, not even bothering to hide his condescension. "Clearly we're dealing with someone who is not a fan of subtlety."

"Clearly not." Shaw said. "But that's funny, because I've heard another alias. 'The Covenant Man.'"

"And I've heard the leader also gets called 'The Ageless Stranger.'" Jonathan piped up. "Kinda sounds like you, boss."

"Am I really a stranger to you, Jonathan?" The General asked. Jonathan managed a smile.

"Dunno, boss. But we never talk anymore, you know. Havent even gone out to dinner in I don't know how long."

Danse and Shaw both rolled their eyes.

"Well, if no one that we know is capable of going out into the field, then who do we turn to?" Shaw asked.

"There's still someone that we haven't considered." The General said.

Danse raised an eyebrow in confusion. But then his eyes widened in realization.

"Oh, no. That's not a good idea, sir."

"I disagree. And that's why _you're_ going to be the one that breaks the news."

…

Each punch was cathartic, a release of hormones and pent-up annoyance and frustration. She danced around the punching dummy, feinting a strike here and there, before unleashing a furious flurry of lefts and rights. The one that she planted under the dummy's jaw would be good enough to shatter a man's jaw. The one that she placed between a couple of ribs would cause a hairline fracture. And the right cross that she finished with was enough for an instant knockout.

Breathing somewhat heavily, and wiping the light sweat off of her forehead, Cait smiled. She might be a retired boxer, but she still had lethal hands.

"Not a bad sequence."

She turned around to see the owner of the voice, and smirked.

"Enjoy the show?" She asked.

"Somewhat." Major Danse said, stepping down into the room deep within the catacombs of the Castle that Cait had turned into a private gym. Cait had undergone a marked transformation over the last few months, especially after she had kicked her drug addictions with the help of the General. She had been somewhat sickly and a shell of what she once had been before the General had stumbled into the Combat Zone. But the time spent cooped up in the Castle had been time Cait spent getting back into shape. And get into shape she had. Danse had no doubt that, save for Strong, Cait might be the strongest person in the Castle.

But it was more than just strength that Cait seemed to have regained. She seemed to have misplaced the fatalistic chutzpah that her pre-cleansing attitude carried, and in its place found something even more powerful. A powerful and steady self-confidence.

"Aw, Danse, if ya wanted to stare at me arse, ya shoulda just asked." Cait said. "I'm proud of how I look, ya know."

Danse averted eye contact for a moment. Perhaps she hadn't changed much after all.

"That's…not what I meant." He said.

"Gosh, you're too easy." Cait said with a smile. "Nice to know that you still remember to be a fusspot around me." She then lowered her smile. "What do you need?"

"Got a job for you."

"Ooh, _goodie._ " Cait said, leaning against the battered dummy. "What, are you gonna have me go clean out the cannons again? I swear to hell that Ada is makin' shite up when she says that she's not programed for the intricacies."

"No, Cait. You aren't being put on monotonous duty."

"Is that right?" Cait asked. She smirked. "Do I gotta sleep with the enemy?"

Danse wrinkled his nose. He hadn't seen her in about a day, and somehow his ability to brush off her more crude comments had evaporated. He was better at deflecting her snarkiness, wasn't he?

" _No._ "

"Aw, that's a shame. Betcha your standard crazy Quincy Boy is a good fu-"

"Cait."

"Sorry, sorry. Goin' a little stir-crazy, is all." She said. Now it was Danse's turn to smirk, ever so slightly.

"Stir crazy, hmm?"

"Yeah, you fusspot. I'm turning into a fusspot like you, the way I'm stuck in here."

"So…do you want to get out of the Castle?" Danse asked. He confessed to a small twinge of satisfaction over how much he'd milked this conversation.

"Oh, _God_ yes."

…

The campfire was small. It was somewhat pitiful, actually. But it was better than nothing. As he sat there, resting on a tree stump while his boots sank into the muck, he wondered just where to go from here.

"Sir?"

He looked up.

"What is it, soldier?"

"We got a head count. Lost Griggs and Sebs, but Hacksaw is gonna pull through. That puts us at about seventy percent strength. No idea what their strength is. Might pull together some men and run a perimeter patrol tonight."

"No need." Preston Garvey said. "Just dig in tonight. They're going to be licking their wounds, just like us."

"You sure about that, Preston?"

The voice was tired, but still carried the playful snark that he'd grown to appreciate even in the darkest of moments. Somehow Preston wondered how she was capable of it, but then he considered the fact that this was a woman who braved war zones just for the sake of telling the truth of what was going on.

This is Piper Wright. If the General of the Minutemen represents the Commonwealth's backbone, Miss Wright is its voice. A self-made woman, Piper has transformed what was once a self-published personal endeavor in the _Publick Occurrences_ into a full-blown literary operation. Based out of Diamond City, the _Publick_ now reaches anywhere in the Commonwealth that can afford the transporation costs of a trader. Which is to say, any settlement that has a semblance of civilization. Where once it was her writing every story while her little sister Nat dutifully printed them, now Miss Wright's staff includes the steady (if cryptic) retired Minuteman Jethro – who covers municipal issues in Diamond City better than Piper ever could (though it took her a long time to admit this) – as well as a rotating corps of "guest columns" that are often used to fill space when the regular stories don't stretch.

She suspects that one of the anonymous writers – dubbing him/herself "The People's Historian" – is the enigmatic ghoul Zinn, who allegedly found a home in Goodneighbor and had found a job as Mayor Hancock's right-hand man. The articles are snide and cynical, but overall have a positive tone. But the other one she has no idea: they are sweeping invectives that seem to stir within the soul a feeling of great hope, passion, and unity. They are simply signed "From Peacefield." She's rather jealous of this person's writing talent, and wishes he or she would reveal themselves.

Before the war, she had plans to possibly open a satellite office of the _Publick_ in Goodneighbor, to make it a truly Commonwealth paper. But now, as she sits in the muck with the Minutemen, studiously sketching down her notes for the next story that she will mail back to Diamond City, she wonders if that dream will ever come to pass. So she buries herself in her work, at a rate and pace that is both titanic and terrifying.

"Yeah, I'm sure." Preston said. "The Castle dropped a veritable hurricane on Jamaica Plains last night. I doubt they missed _everyone._ "

"My ears are still ringing." Piper said. She looked out towards the ruined city. "I remember when Blue and I found the 'treasure' of Jamaica Plains." She trails off.

The relationship between Miss Piper and the General of the Minutemen is one of some speculation. Outside of Preston, Piper was the first person in the Commonwealth that the General met. However, she was the one that followed him around the most out of everyone that considered themselves part of his inner circle. She was the one that he seemed to trust the most with his innermost feelings and thoughts. And she seemed to be just as willing. Truly, they were two sides of the same coin: She was loud, talkative and brash – truly sanguine. He was more introspective and thoughtful – rather phlegmatic. And yet, whenever anyone asked one what they thought of the other…never was a straight answer given. Piper would sputter and change the subject. Nate would simply smile.

Neither of them would give an answer anytime soon. Simply because neither of them believed that an answer was necessary. One cannot answer a question if one does not believe it is a legitimate question worth answering.

"Yeah, I wish I had been there to see it." Preston said. "I imagine that I would have laughed hysterically."

"Yeah, you would have." Piper said. "Think it's even around, buried under all the rubble?"

"Who knows?" Preston said. "Thank goodness the General took out that slug-I mean, baseball bat and old flag. Otherwise nothing of that time capsule would have survived."

"You should have seen it, Preston." Piper said. "Blue took one look at that bat, and I thought he was going to cry. He was holding it like it was some pretty and elegant thing, instead of an ancient club that people used to beat in each others' heads."

"Hey, he's told me that baseball was a lot less…violent from when he was around. You should have seen him when Moe tried to sell him a Slugger-I mean, baseball bat. The General looked like he was going to end Moe's life with his bare hands."

"Probably could have done it." Piper said, smiling wistfully. "Blue's…strong." She shuddered.

"Something wrong?" Preston asked.

"Just…shivering from anticipation." Piper said. "I just…I just get the feeling that things are going to pick up again. Don't you feel like we're standing on a ledge? I feel like we're standing on a ledge. I mean, not that we're not already standing on a ledge _now,_ considering the fact that we're camping on a rockside cliff, but…uh…aw, man." She trailed off.

"You're nervous." Preston said.

"Oh of course." Piper admitted. "I might know how to use this." She gestured to the well-kept 10mm pistol clipped to her hip. "But I don't know how to be a _soldier_ , Preston. How do you do it?"

"It depends." Preston said. We each have our own ways of compartmentalizing. But I guess that's the trick. You have to be able to compartmentalize."

"How does Blue do it?" Piper asked. "How does _he_ compartmentalize?"

Preston opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it when he realized that he had no satisfactory answer.

…

The day passed without event. The Minutemen licked their wounds, and reinforced their position. There was minimal activity from either side. But that was because they were all waiting. Waiting for the light to go out.

That was the reality that all the Minutemen feared. They knew that they owned the day. The light was theirs. With that on their side, they had no fear. But the light did not last forever. The light went away after a time. And with the fall of the light came the rise of the darkness. And the darkness was patient. It was willing to wait. And when it stretched out over the land to plunge the Commonwealth into a black sleep, those that held the light on their side clung to their guns a little tighter, and felt the adrenaline and the fear spike in their blood and their guts. Whatever confidence they had melted away. Because they knew the score. They knew the cold reality of what they faced.

With the passing of the light came the waking of the night.

And the night belonged to the Shadow.

A/N: Next chapter…we meet The One They Oppose.


	3. In the Dark

A/N: I own nothing except the laptop I wrote this story on.

There are two definitive states of being in the known universe: that of order and that of chaos. From a simplistic mindset, order can be characterized as a sort of sterility: a refusal to embrace or even admit to the dark impulses that lurk in the depths of the human heart. It is, in the eyes of its enemies, a façade and a bad joke: a desperate attempt to rationalize that which cannot be rationalized. It is simply delaying the inevitable.

Chaos, thus, positions itself as a sort of intellectual and metaphysical counterweight. While order is akin to a sterilized hospital, chaos is a swamp. It does not have a definitive ending or beginning, and once one sinks into the center there are only two options left to the mind: either to go mad from the revelation that one shall never emerge…or to embrace it. Embrace it and everything that it stands for, and that which it does not stand for. If order is a bad attempt at rationalizing reality, then chaos is not even bothering to think about the question in the first place. There is no point and there is no order, so why bother with the question itself? All that does is distract from what one should be doing: accepting it for what it is.

However, there is a third state of being that neither order nor chaos can lay claim to. And in that grey zone lies the greatest danger: uncertainty.

Uncertainty is the grey line that divides the black and white dichotomies of order and chaos into their respective echo chambers. Uncertainty is the fluid essence that does not lay claim to either order or chaos. It simply hops across the faultline as it pleases, with neither side knowing what it means. Knowing what it wants. Knowing what it stands for. Because it has no beginning and it has no end. And yet all the same it is self-evident, and it is capable of rendering the greatest proponents of order into sniveling wrecks, and the hardiest of chaotic agents begging for a semblance of meaning that they may ascribe to their lives.

Uncertainty is a jungle.

And Quincy _is_ uncertainty.

…

The streets are pockmarked with signs of damage and decay, as though it has aged at a far more precipitous rate than the rest of the Commonwealth. The buildings are jagged and bizarre in architecture, as they have been built and rebuilt both to remember the past as well as accentuate those that now inhabit it. There is an ever-present smog in the air, as the industries of war are forever at work equipping and arming the veritable legions of Quincy Boys that fight and die in scores for the sake of their mission. A grey scrim hangs over the sky even when the sun attempts to shine, and the nights seem to always be on the verge of storm. A subtle wind blows, whistling softly through the cracks of windows and the openings between buildings. Fights periodically break out in the streets, as the Quincy Boys in their many factions stage what amounts to posturing rituals to remind one another of whom the truly unbreakable psychos are. The one thing that Quincy is not is silent.

With one exception.

Once upon a time, this building housed a great man and a great family. By some strange twist of fate, it was spared the wreckage of the Great War that tore the original Commonwealth asunder. It was once a representation of what the past meant for the land, and as a reminder for posterity before insanity and panic set in during the final years of war with China. The centerpiece of the building was the great library, set in stone by the last owner of the place: he had wished it to be layered in stone to prevent it from going up in flames. Histories were written here. Farewell addresses and copies of great writings were housed here. Former leaders of the free world lived and breathed on these grounds.

But now it belongs to Quincy.

It is a far cry from its former glory on the outside, and the hallways and rooms were filled with lounging and otherwise indisposed Quincy Boys and their commanders. They idly sit and wait for orders, standing guard with only their rifles and their poor impulse control to keep them occupied. But the further one goes into the building, the more rigid the Quincy Boys become. And the more their ranks begin to mix with those that have joined them in their quest for the soul of the Commonwealth.

Raiders.

Slavers.

Mutants.

Disciples.

Operators.

The Pack.

And in the heart of the library is where it is all centered.

…

There is an argument going on in the library. Voices are raised and tempers are beginning to flare. There are three people in the center of it, and from the look of it none of them intend to back down.

"I'm getting awfully sick of how my pups are the ones taking the brunt of all this." The first one growls. He stares at his associates and does not bother to hide his distaste for things. "How come The Pack has to be the cannon fodder in Jamaica Plains?"

This is Mason. He is animalistic. He is brutal. He is also a massive block of a man, his face painted in garish blues and purples. The only thing on his face that does not have the same spray paint cover is his mustache, which he keeps trimmed and which he is very proud of. He was never a fan of subtlety, and he hates duplicity. As far as Mason is concerned, there is only might to make right. If the way to prosperity is in getting rid of your foes, then Mason will make it clear to everyone within a country mile that he will be the one to remove the problem. He has no advisors, because in his pack only the strong have a right to a voice. And he is by far the strongest.

One only need to ask the corpse of his predecessor.

"Please, Mason. You _are_ aware that there are more in the Pack than in the combined might of our gangs, correct? It's simply the cost of doing business."

This is Mags Black. In another lifetime, she might have been the wealthy socialite that families attempted to pair their son with in order to access a financially stable partnership. They would have done so like the blue bloods of old. And for a time, this might have become her destiny: born in the Upper Stands of Diamond City, Mags Black never knew a day without privilege and pampering. Of course, this was also offset by harsh consequences for not living up to her parents' impossible standards. She and her brother William were groomed to be the highest of the high within that gilded cage, their parents training them to keep their noses aloft at the very sight of the filth that inhabited the surface below them. And for years, she never questioned this set-up in life. Hated it, but never questioned it. But then, as she became a young woman, something terrible happened.

Mags Black got bored.

And so she and her brother fled, on a whim deciding to try their hand at raiding. Of course, for privileged and sheltered adolescents whose only morality lay in the importance of currency, raiding was an easy addiction. In a way, Mags Black and William Black followed the classic trope of teenage rebellion against their parents.

But while most teenage rebels contented themselves with wearing leathered clothes and listening to angsty music, Mags and William formed an utterly immoral gang whose sole guiding principle in life was whether they could make money: the Operators. And as they reside in Quincy, they fantasize about the wealth that was denied them in Diamond City, and many a night is passed with Mags dreaming of sleeping in those soft beds again…with her hand firmly around the throat of that pissant mayor and her boot in the face of the scum living in that city. William is only in it for the money.

"Are you suggesting that the lives of my dogs are less than that of your little hair band?" Mason growled, staring bullet holes at Mags.

"Yes." She doesn't even blink. She takes a drag from her cigarette, and dismissively blows the smoke in his face.

"I'm getting awfully sick of listening to you two bicker. But then again, that just leaves us more time to do what we do best."

This is Nisha. If one were to dig deep enough, one can find a reason for the way Mags Black and Mason operate the way that they do: Mason is brutal out of necessity as the alpha of his pack, and Mags views money as her religion and driving core to do what she does. But there is no motivation or rationale to explain the twisted depths of Nisha or her Disciples. They view success in life in measures of how much blood they can spill, and those that cannot make it in their world are simply another corpse to make. Her soothing tone betrays a sadism that makes even the hardiest raider step back in fear, and there are dark rumors of what she plans to do to the leader of the Minutemen if she were ever to get her hands – and knives – on him. She is a mad dog off the leash, and when the meanest and nastiest of Quincy Boys want to scare each other…they tell stories of Nisha.

"And I suppose you and your freaks in metal would do it better?" Mags asked.

"Not only would we, but we already have." Nisha said. "You seem to forget that it was because of us that we were able to capture Bawlmer. Not your Pack, and certainly not the Operators. The Disciples were the ones that broke the back of the Bawlmer Free Society."

"Only after we softened up the defenses." Mason countered.

"And you were only able to do that because we made the right equipment for you." Mags said, a trace of irritation in her voice.

"And _you_ were lucky to get piecemeal bits of _our_ successes because you were sitting in the back."

"Are you threatening me, Nisha?"

"Threatening? No. Insulting? Indubitably."

"Psycho."

"Wench."

"Bitch!"

"There's no need for this kind of fight-"

"Keep out of this, puppy dog."

"Don't you talk to me like tha-"

"You're all giving me a headache."

The moment he speaks, the three of them fall into immediate silence.

…

He'd been sitting in a stout wooden chair, resting comfortably by what had once been the fireplace. The chair seems like it, too, is from another time and era. He had been reading something that interested him, but as the argument raised he'd put his book down and steepled his fingers together in front of his nose. The children had risen their voices again, and he needed to remind them whom they were dealing with.

The first thing about him that struck viewers was the pale complexion of his skin. He is eerily white, despite the fact that he has wandered for an imperceptible amount of time. His face is sharp and angular, with high cheekbones and a thin nose. His hair, a muddy brown, hangs down over his forehead and runs the risk of coming into his eyes. He's a tall man of no discernable age: he speaks of being witness to things that are but a distant memory of the past, and yet there is still a youthful look to his face.

His clothing is similarly nondescript: he wears faded dark blue jeans with the ankles starting to fray, and a white tee-shirt with stains of dirt and mud caked into the fabric. Over that shirt is a quiet black denim jacket; it looks like it might have had patches once upon a time, but it is equally frayed at the edges. On his feet are cowboy boots, as if his feet stepped off the pages of an old western serial. Even the boots themselves look the part, with remnants of spurs on the back and the faintest trace of some sort of symbol stitched into the leather. But whatever it was has faded from memory. All that is left is a dull, dead brown.

Just like his eyes.

"We weren't trying to disturb you, sir." Mags said, taking a drag from her cigarette again. "Just venting a little bit."

"Somehow that doesn't comfort the ache in my ears." The man in the chair said. There is a quiet sternness to his voice. But there is no warmth in his tone.

Or perhaps there is. That is part of what makes him so puzzling to those that he has united: no one is sure where he came from, only that he rolled into the land of the raiders in the former amusement park, and within a matter of days had the entire park bent to his will. None of the raider bosses could explain it, but he managed to get them to put aside their differences. Managed to bring all of them together under one banner. Perhaps it was because he promised them riches beyond their imagination if they followed him.

"Sir, we-"

"Did I ask for you to open your mouth, Mason?"

Or perhaps it was because they were all afraid of him.

They'd seen what he'd done to Overboss Colter, after all.

He sits there in silence, staring at them with his steepled fingers resting on his lap. He has completely forgotten his book now, which lies disregarded off to the side of the chair. Now he is fully focusing his attention on the three raider bosses before him.

"We couldn't crack Covenant." Mason began. "And our push out of Jamaica Plains got us pushed back in thanks to their sky-fire. I've never seen anything like that, and this isn't the first time that they've rained fire down on my Pack."

"And our field commanders are still trying to regroup. We don't have a strategy or course of action from any of them." Mags said.

"The only thing that keeps us from despairing is the fact that the Minutemen don't seem to have a strategy either."

"They don't." He speaks again, and they are cowed into silence. "They're content to force us back into the dark, like chasing away a radroach with a torch. They rely on their artillery, and they hope that is enough to stop us. But they know. They know that we draw countless forces from Bawlmer to the south. That we draw from Nuka-World. That we draw from the places in the Commonwealth that they haven't tried to 'tame.' They're running out of time." He leaned back in his chair. "All we need to do is wait for the opportune moment. And when it comes, I trust that you will execute the plan as we have discussed." He smiles slightly. "The Commonwealth is already ours. They simply haven't realized it yet."

There was a dark hilarity in his face, and perhaps in his heart, too. It was the face of a hatefully happy man, a face that radiated a horrible handsome warmth. It was the kind of face that attracted one despite the warnings of their better nature, like light drawing a fly to its inevitable doom. Rarely did he smile. But when he did, it meant that things had already gone exactly according to his plans.

The corner of his lip tilted upwards. It wasn't a smile, but it was close.

"I tire of your arguing." He said. "Find something else to do. And leave me to my books. You've already disturbed me once. I will not appreciate it happening again."

The leaders silently left the room, no doubt to continue their arguing elsewhere. As their voices resumed outside the door, he turned towards the side of the room.

"Do you have anything to say, or are you content to just sit there and sweat?"

The man in the corner of the room shuffles in his shoes nervously, trying to put off making eye contact for as long as he has to.

This is Clint. He was once a proud member of the Minutemen, that stabilizing presence in the madness that was the Commonwealth. He served for many years, and there was talk, at least in the early days, that he might have what it took to be one of the great leaders of the Minutemen before it was all said and done. But at his core there was a fundamental disconnect: while others were proud to be in the Minutemen because they were proud to serve their fellow Commonwealth citizen, Clint was proud of the sense of power he felt in defending people. And that pure pride eventually morphed from annoyance with the many rules and regulations that the Minutemen imposed, to outright contempt when he'd received the offer from the Gunners for better pay, better accolades, and a chance to own a town of his own. But, more importantly, they offered him something that the Minutemen hadn't offered him ever:

Freedom.

He didn't blink when it came to betraying the garrison in Quincy, and didn't bat an eye when Colonel Hollis got pumped so full of lead that he was nearly cut to ribbons. As far as he was concerned, the old man was doomed to follow a diseased organization to his dying days (and he did) and the other members of the Quincy garrison all hated his guts anyway. Especially that goody-goody Preston Garvey. He so desperately regretted the fact that he hadn't had a chance to kick Garvey's ass before he'd taken the majority of Hollis' force with him to the Gunners. He heard rumors that Garvey was out by Jamaica Plains. Perhaps that would be his chance.

But whenever he thought of that feverish opportunity, he also remembered what had led him to this point. He'd quickly realized that he might be good at leading an insurrection, but he had no business controlling a city. Quincy turned into a hellhole, the kind where no trader in their right mind would dare enter of their own free will. So the Gunners opened him a line of credit, making it clear to him, however, that he needed to start forming some sort of self-sufficiency. And he had planned to, until that blasted kid from the vault all of a sudden linked up with the Brotherhood of Steel. That wasn't supposed to happen.

And then the Vaultie went and broke the Gunners' back at some of their major depots in the Commonwealth, slowing Clint's stipend and supply line to a mere trickle. But it was only a matter of time before it stopped completely. And his men were starting to get annoyed with the fact that their paychecks weren't coming in as consistently as they used to. Or that the stream of chems they were used to was starting to dry up.

When Clint heard about this Nuka-World organization, he'd decided to offer himself and the city of Quincy as part of that group. Maybe that way he'd be able to keep his little operation afloat. It might even let him make some money that he hadn't in a while.

But whenever he glanced at the man who now sat in that chair, and got a good look into the nothingness that was his eyes, Clint wondered if perhaps he'd have been better off just facing his angry men and the Minutemen.

"I…I don't have anything to add." Clint admitted. "Just wondering if you need anything from me."

He'd been given the job of "aide-de-camp," whatever the hell that was, but what it really felt like he was being relegated to being a bitch on the sideline. His Gunners were left to be "peacekeepers" in Quincy, which meant that they were the ones that had to break up any fights between those three major gangs that had come in to Quincy, as well as the scores of mindless wretches flowing in from Bawlmer. So they had no military power. And he was left out of any major decisions at the war table, so that left him with no political power. And he was deathly afraid of the man sitting in the room with him. So he had no personal power at all.

He felt helpless.

"Shame." The man in the chair said, taking a moment to light a cigarette. "And here I was hoping that I would have someone to talk to. It gets awfully lonely with your thoughts, when there's no one there to match them for you."

"You want to talk to me?" Clint asked.

"No." The man in the chair replied. "Not particularly."

At this, Clint found a stroke of the same rage that had afflicted him when he'd looked at Colonel Hollis all those years ago.

"Now you listen here, just a minute." Clint said. "I don't know what it is you think you are doing here, but let's not forget something. Before you came to Quincy, who was the person that had this city under control? Who was the person who had the whole of the Commonwealth afraid to go to the south? Who was the guy that managed to make the Gunners look like something to be fearful? It was me. And I'll be damned if some yuppie in jeans and cowboy boots doesn't give me the respect I deserve. You've treated me like dirt offa the bottom of your shoe for as long as you and your freaks got here. And I demand some respect. I'm Clint, god dammit! And I'm in charge of the Gunners."

The man in the chair stared at him with a blank expression, thoroughly unimpressed or unperturbed by the outburst happening next to him. He tapped his chin in thought, and then took another drag from his cigarette. He blew out the smoke, and then raised an eyebrow as if he'd had an epiphany.

"As a matter of fact, you're right." He said.

Clint blinked once.

"What?"

"I said you're right." The man said. "I _have_ been treating you rather poorly. Ever since we got here, I guess it does seem like I've been treating you like dirt under my shoe. Like you don't matter. All without reason. Well, I'm terribly sorry about that, Clint."

He stood up, and rested his arm over Clint's shoulder. The Gunner flinched, but then relaxed a bit. The man smiled warmly.

"If there's one thing that I would never want to do, it's keep people in the dark. Especially someone like you, Clint. Now, there's a reason why I've been treating you the way I have in front of the others. _Especially_ the way I've been treating you in front of the others. Now, there's a reason that I've been doing this. If you promise not to tell the others, I'll tell you why. That seem fair to you?"

"Oh yeah, that seems fair!" Clint said, nodding repeatedly.

The man smiled sweetly.

"Perfect."

He put out his cigarette in Clint's eye.

As the Gunner captain screamed and fell to the ground, the man proceeded to stomp him repeatedly as he was down. He felt ribs breaking, and one stomp found Clint's face and shattered his nose. As the Gunner captain feebly crawled around on the ground, the man reached inside his jacket.

"The reason that I've been treating you the way I've been treating you is because I _don't_ respect you. And I _do_ think that you're worth less than the dirt of the bottom of my shoe. But most of all? You're weak. And the jungle eats the weak. You of all people should know that by now."

He finally found what he was looking for. He pulled the gun out of its holster, and pulled back the hammer. It was an old-looking gun, a six-shot revolver with .45 caliber bullets in the chamber. The Colt Single Action Army. He raised the gun towards the crawling Clint, who raised his hands in a pleading motion.

"You could tell the devil that Randolph Lagg sent you, Clint." He paused. And then he smirked. "Then again, don't bother. It's not like I'd be listening, anyway."

BANG.

A/N: Two things. First, I sincerely apologize for the lack of updates. I was phenomenally busy over the last few weeks, and then came down with an illness that kept writing about as far from my mind as you can get. But I have returned, and hope to have a more brisk update schedule moving forward. Again, my sincere apologies.

Secondly. Concerning our villain. It is my personal opinion that, while he was a crucial piece of the Fallout series in giving it its charm, the great Ron Perlman was criminally under-used in Fallout 4.

So I've borrowed his voice to give my villain. Hope you all don't mind.


	4. Stacking Up the Dominoes

A/N: I own nothing except the laptop I wrote this story on.

Somehow, no matter how often she was willing to make an off-color comment, Cait never managed to find the nerve to do so when she was standing in the General's office. It was the strangest thing; before the start of everything, and back when she and Nate were just wastelanders along with the rest of them…she loved getting under his skin. She'd make all kinds of jokes, innuendos, and every now and then made false doe-eyes at him to get him to be uncomfortable. Of course, she didn't really remember everything that she'd done: the truth was that, before they visited Vault 95 and got her cleaned up, Cait could probably count on one hand the number of days where she _wasn't_ high on something.

And yet, despite her well-known reputation as an addict, when she'd sucked it up (mostly because the idea of coughing up blood was terrifying to her) and confessed to the boss that she needed to get cleaned…he'd immediately dropped everything and gone with her. They'd nearly gotten killed by the Gunners that were defending the vault, and he nearly got vaporized by one of those Assaultrons. But in the end, he'd managed to get her through that nightmarish facility. He managed to get the right computations set up for the machine. And, in the end, he'd been there for her during the most painful experience of her life.

Maybe that was why, whenever she was in the general's office, Cait's usually crass nature failed her. Because, no matter how much he might rebuke her and tell her otherwise, Cait felt like she owed Nathanael Greene her life. And that level of respect was enough to make her hold off on wondering about how comfortable it would be to shag someone on the desk.

That desk, of course, was currently occupied by the man himself. He was busy scribbling something on a sheet of paper. Off to the side, at his desk, Danse was walking her through everything that she needed to know about…whatever the hell it was that she'd agreed to just a few hours ago.

"Cait, this mission isn't for the faint of heart." Danse began his briefing. "And though you tend to… _exercise_ my patience, there aren't many more people in the Minutemen that have a firmer disposition than you."

"Aww, fusspot, it sounds like you're giving me a compliment!"

Danse looked at her and simply raised an unimpressed eyebrow. There was a time and a place for their light-hearted repartee, but it was quite clear that he didn't think it acceptable for now. So she fell silent again, slightly disappointed.

"As you know, the First Division led by Colonel Garvey is in the middle of a stalemate outside of Jamaica Plains with the Quincy insurgency. Last night's shelling was designed as a way to keep the Quincy troops from pressing out of the city limits and into the hills to the north. Right now, we're fighting to hang on with both hands."

"Are we losin'?" Cait asked. She wasn't about to let whatever worry she felt be present in her tone of voice.

"We're not losing." Danse said. "But we're not gaining any ground, either. Right now, Quincy has everything focused on Jamaica Plains. That leaves us tactically vulnerable. Because if they decide to attack somewhere else…"

"We're starting to get stretched out somewhat thin." The General said, not even looking up from his papers. "I don't want to draw from emergency reserves up in Goodneighbor or in Diamond City. And if we request any troops from the Brotherhood all the way in the Airport, that's going to leave them weakened."

"So what's the solution?" Cait asked. "Why not just blast the hell out of _Quincy_ for a change, instead of firing into Jamaica?"

She caught the look in Danse's eyes. He was…was he _impressed?_

"Not a bad strategy, Cait." He said. "That was essentially going to be the exact plan I'm about to brief you with."

While Cait felt awfully good about herself, Danse unrolled a map of the Commonwealth and spread it out over his desk. Cait noticed that, for the most part, it seemed painstakingly well-done. It was thorough, it was accurate…except for the southeastern region, which seemed somewhat sparse.

"What I am about to discuss with you, you are not to divulge with anyone." Danse said. "This is a priority One mission, and to disclose information with anyone that is not pursuant to the mission is grounds for charges of treason and possibly execution."

Cait tried to make a wisecrack, but the seriousness with which Danse spoke made it clear to her that he wasn't kidding.

Danse began by gesturing towards the Castle, as well as the area immediately around it.

"This is the fire coordinates map, or at least a copy of it that all of the artillery units in the Commonwealth are instructed to memorize. What you have before you is the first hard copy in existence. To prevent it from falling into enemy hands, only the Castle keeps any hard copies. The rest are up to the gun-handlers at each battery to memorize." He pointed over to the Castle. "As you can see, the area with the most accurate lattitute and longitude ranges is the area immediately surrounding the Castle. If we were to call in an artillery strike around the Castle, we could do so with enough accuracy to pick the wings off of a bloodbug."

He let his finger run down the map, towards the blank and sparsely-drawn area to the southeast.

"…And our maps are, understandably, far less accurate than we would like when it comes to mapping Quincy." Danse said. "We had planned a few scouting missions some months ago, but…truthfully, most plans were scrapped when Elder Maxson requested our assistance in dealing with what was eventually revealed as Lucy Martel."

Cait shook her head. She remembered that woman: feral, fierce, and a walking one-woman army of death and destruction. It was still somewhat surreal that a single woman had managed to grind everything in the Commonwealth to a halt while both the Brotherhood of Steel and the Minutemen were suddenly supposed to be on high alert looking for her. And even then, they didn't manage to find her. She had come to them.

She wondered if she was still alive down in the Capital Wasteland with Elder Maxson, as they supposed were working day and night to purge the Brotherhood of the corruption that had festered in it for years.

"But problems aside, the mapping of Quincy needs to be done." Danse said. "Because if we have a more accurate reading on the city, and have more accurate depictions of the pressure points…"

"…You'll be able to launch artillery strikes into Quincy itself." Cait finished. "Damn, fusspot. That's awfully forward-thinkin' of you."

"It was more Colonel Shaw's plan than mine." Danse said. "Colonel Shaw was the one that thought of the idea of dropping bombs on Quincy. I was the one that figured it could be tied into the plans to properly geo-map the Commonwealth."

"Figures that you'd have the boring and nerdy plan." Cait said.

"Boring, nerdy and fastidious is what builds civilization." Danse replied. "You'll thank me later when my plans and proposals lead to better roads, better communication, and smoother inter-settlement trade and relations."

"He's not wrong, you know." The General said. "But we're belaboring the point." He stood up at his desk. "What we need you to do, Cait, is lead a scouting mission deep behind enemy lines, and while you're travelling be able to periodically plant small geo-markers that can help with mapping the area. Both for war reasons…and for afterwards. And, if possible, get us a general reading of where the strongest points of the city of Quincy are. Because a concentrated airstrike to that city might be enough to put them on their heels, and allow us a chance to push back. They're the ones that have been on the offensive for too long. It's time for us to hit back. But we're going to do it in a different way than they do: they're blunt force trauma." He paused. "And we're the scalpel."

"Alright." Cait said. "So you want me doin' some sight seein' and some trackin'…and so you can do some bombin'?"

"That's a rough summation." Danse said.

"Well, I did say that I wanted to get out of the Castle." Cait admitted.

…

The Castle armory was one of the most well-stocked locales of its kind in the entire Commonwealth. It seemed as though every gun or explosive that was ever used in the Commonwealth was stored here in the catacombs of this ancient structure. There were sidearms, grenades, laser and plasma weapons, and plenty of assault weapons. As Cait grabbed one of the assault rifles on display, she couldn't help but wonder what else to bring. At her core, Cait was a fighter. And she did enjoy the thrill of combat, perhaps a little bit more than the others that the General brought with him on his many adventures throughout the Commonwealth. Of course, nowadays he was seemingly confined to the desk in his office.

"Am I getting any support?" She asked, as she rummaged through the boxes for a bandolier of grenades. Danse, who was escorting her through the Castle catacombs, sighed.

"You're getting one man."

At this, Cait looked up in disbelief.

"You're shiteing me."

Danse remained expressionless.

"God _damn_ it, Danse. You're sendin' me towards Quincy with just _one_ man to watch me back? Who the hell did you pick?"

"Keep in mind that this isn't a full-frontal assault." Danse said sternly."This is a sneaking mission first and foremost. Thus, Strong is out of the question. And, frankly, we need him here at the Castle to help build up defenses and shore up the guns. So, to be honest, your backup isn't so much backup as it is a spotter. You're going to be taking one of the newer recruits with you."

"Now I _know_ that you're fuckin' with me." Cait said.

"Do I look like it?" Danse asked. At that moment, another door opened. "There's your man now."

As the young recruit walked over towards the two of them, he stood at attention. Danse dismissed him, and let him stand at ease.

"Private Rivia, you're to be under the direct command of Lieutenant Cait here."

"I'm a lieutenant?" Cait asked.

"You are now." Danse said. "Considering you used to be a sergeant up until a few moments ago."

"Wow, I don't even remember bein' a sergeant!" Cait said. "Almost like someone's playin' a joke on me!"

"Yes. Almost as if." Danse said, clearly getting annoyed with how unhelpful Cait was being. He glowered for a moment, and then turned towards the recruit. "Do you have the geo-mapping modules?"

"All of them, sir." Private Rivia replied. He gestured to the bulky backpack he was carrying.

"Geo-mappers?" Cait asked.

"Courtesy of a Capital Wasteland liason to the Brotherhood." Danse explained. "Created by Reilly's Rangers, and now part of our arsenal. I had to pay a decent amount for the shipping and manufacturing, so take care not to waste them." He looked over at the two of them. "From this point on, you two are travelling traders. If anyone asks what's in the backpack, you say that it's wares. You're hoping to sell enough to become a partner in one of the co-ops to the south. If anyone tries to take the geo-mappers, you have permission to terminate with extreme prejudice. And if you feel that you are going to be overrun…destroy the geo-mappers at all costs."

"That's it, huh?" Cait asked. "No words of advice? No fancy partin' shots?"

"We're counting on you, Cait." Danse said. "This mission will help decide the fate of the Commonwealth, one way or another. Good luck." He saluted, and then walked out of the armory.

He hadn't even engaged in some of her banter. That fact alone was enough to seriously rattle Cait. Not that she'd show it, however.

…

Danse closed the door to the office. He sighed once, and then looked back towards the interior of the place.

"How does it look?"

The General was staring at him from the command of his desk. He seemed expressionless.

"It'll be a tricky one, no doubt." Danse said. "I have confidence in Cait's…ability to get things done. But this is going to need more than that. It's going to need precision. And only two people? Is that wise?"

"By conventional wisdom? No." Nate said. "But you know how stretched we are. It's the only way to get something done without tipping our hand." He looked over at the sheets of paper in front of him, and sighed.

"What's the matter?" Danse asked.

"Intelligence reports." The General said. "While I have to give Desdemona credit for how easily she's shifted the Railroad from a Synth protection business to an intelligence bureau, it's somewhat depressing to read the reports."

"Well, what did they come up with this time?"

"It's third-hand information at best, so we have to take it with a grain of salt." Nate began. "…But there are reports that Clint is dead."

"Clint?" Danse asked. "Isn't he the one who took over Quincy to begin with? Abandoned the Minutemen and joined up with the Gunners?"

"That's the one."

"Well, I'm not sure why that is bad news, sir, because the idea that one of the strongest leaders of Quincy is dead…that's fantastic!"

"Except Clint wasn't really in charge anymore." The General said glumly. "Probably hadn't been for some time. He probably was in the weeks leading up to Lucy's arrival to the Commonwealth, but reports are pretty clear that his influence in Quincy diminished pretty much by the day ever since."

"Who was replacing him?" Danse asked.

"Again, I don't know who the boss is other than his vast litany of names and pseudonyms." The General said. "But there are reports that there are representatives from Baltimore, a few all the way from Pittsburgh…and an awful lot from Nuka World. The majority, in fact."

"I don't recognize the first two places." Danse admitted.

"Yeah you do." The General said. "Though to be fair, you know them as Bawlmer and The Pitt, respectively."

"People came all the way from The Pitt?" Danse asked. "Are we that much of a blight to them?"

"It's not that." The General said. "It's because we're successful and growing. Places like The Pitt and Bawlmer…I guess they're jealous. Or intimidated. I don't know. All I know is that…whatever we thought Quincy was capable of…that was dependant on the idea that Clint was around. But now that he's completely out of the picture, I expect things to get very hectic around here in the coming days."

"I'll send out feelers to Bunker Hill, the Airport, and Diamond City as well as Goodneighbor." Danse said. "It would probably be wise to keep them all on high alert."

"Don't incite panic." The General cautioned. "But let Hancock, Pitt, Rhys, and the Trader Collective know that we have reasonable intelligence to believe that the Quincy Boys might be feeling bolder. A simple safety precaution is our recommendation."

"I know that Hancock will handle that news fine. He's got Goodneighbor feeling tough and rambunctious. They're gonna be going about their business with no worries. Rhys will be annoyed that we haven't consulted him on attack plans, but that's simply the way that things are at the moment. Nothing that he can do about it."

"Rhys can stick his complaints where the sun doesn't shine. As long as he holds the airport and keeps Liberty Prime from falling into Quincy hands, then we're going to be fine."

"I am always in favor of cutting Rhys down a peg or two, sir. But that might be more pettiness than professionalism."

"What's the deal I'm hearing about Hancock's mayoral policies?" Nate asked. "Something about consolidation of power, or something like that."

"That's far more authoritarian than the reality." Danse said. "No, the biggest shift is his decision to hire that ghoul out of Diamond City, Zinn. You know, the one that was co-counsel for the Institute Remnant during the trial."

"I thought that Horatio Zwicky was the lead lawyer on that case?"

"He certainly came off looking like it, after that closing speech of his. There are rumors that he might run for office in the aftermath of the war. Either for Diamond City municipal office or for the Commonwealth government. That reminds me, I need to show you some of my ideas for how to structure the Commonwealth government positions and cabinets."

"Set up a meeting that doesn't cut into more important things. Should I be worried about Zinn?"

"No. Guy's more interested in being a behind-the-scenes guy, anyway. He's the sort that will be a stalwart political figure, but would make a terrible candidate if actually convinced to run for lead office."

"Sounds like a typical Republican or Democrat candidate."

"Republicans and Democrats, sir?"

"Never mind. Way before your time. Neither worth describing, anyway."

"What about the others?" The General asked.

"The Traders at Bunker Hill are going to be hesitant, because hiring extra bodyguards costs money and if there's one thing that the Bunker Hill merchants don't like doing…"

"…it's spending their own money." The General finished. "What about Diamond City? How are things there?"

"Tense." Danse said. "The Institute Remnant trial concluded, as I'm sure you heard."

"I did."

"Well, they found the Institute Heads guilty of everything that they were charged for, but the rest of the people were let off the hook. Except there's no place for them to go, so right now the legally free members of the Institute have been forced to squat on the premises. They're in refugee tents at the base of the Wall. That's causing some civil unrest, because even though the jury ruled them innocent…there are still citizens who think that they're criminals by proxy. Mayor Pitt is dealing with that, as well as a rising push against his leadership by some of the Upper Box people, led by Ann Codman."

"Why am I not surprised?" Nate asked.

"It was inevitable, in retrospect." Danse said. "Codman was never a fan of Pitt, mostly because he was about a third of her age and because he had none of that 'respecting elders' mindset that she clearly expected him to possess. Also, he doesn't cozy himself up to the richer citizens the way his predecessor did."

"His predecessor was a _Synth_."

"And a very good butt-kisser, from the sound of it. Anyway, now Pitt has to deal with internal strife in addition to being a war-time mayor. I hear he's smoking two packs a day. Unfiltered."

"Jesus. How's the _Publick_ calling it?"

"As you'd expect: fair and balanced. There's no basis to the accusations that Pitt wants to exercise emergency powers as mayor so that he can become mayor in perpetuity, and the claims that the economy of the city is struggling is also full of holes. It's really just the rich people complaining that they aren't getting as much of the pie as they're used to."

"Is Pitt in danger of losing the election that's coming up in a few weeks?"

"Unlikely." Danse said. "Mostly because no likely candidate of opposition has emerged, yet. And I doubt that any will. Of course, that will _also_ play into opposition hands: they'll try to spin it by saying that the lack of an opposing candidate is only further proof that Pitt is a tyrant."

"That makes…so little sense." Nate said. "Why on earth-"

"It's war, sir." Danse said. "You and I both know how easily rationality erodes when citizens deal with the uncertainty of war."

"And how is-"

"Miss Wright is still out in Jamaica Plains, Nate." Danse said. "I know that you are concerned about her, but if there is anything that I've learned from my long walks with you around the Commonwealth before we decided to restart our professions as soldiers…she's a lot tougher than most of the people that have ever walked in the Commonwealth at one point or another. And she would beat the _hell_ out of you if she thought you were worrying over her for worry's sake."

The General nodded, conceding the point. Danse picked up his pipe, and within a few moments was smoking steadily from it.

"Do you think that Cait and the kid will be alright?" He asked the General.

"I have no doubt." The General said. "In all likelihood, nothing is going to happen to them tonight."

…

She ducked as a bullet embedded itself in the plaster wall behind her, literally inches from where her head had once been. Cursing violently, she hastily reloaded her weapon and raised up out and over the cover. She fired off a burst, but it wasn't enough to draw off the three Raiders that were taking potshots.

She and Rivia had been ambushed almost as soon as they entered the nearest town, somewhere in between Goodneighbor and the Airport. At first it had been about seven raiders, but a well-thrown grenade had knocked their numbers below 50% full strength. Unfortunately, that was when the three raiders started spamming Molotov cocktails, and she and Rivia were forced to take cover in some old antique store.

The kid had taken some cuts to the cheek as a result of fragments flying everywhere, and was currently huddling over the backpack of geo-trackers. He was no good in a firefight, clearly. Just her luck.

She heard her gun run empty, and ducked back under cover. She reached for more ammo…only to realize that she'd left it across the store. In her haste to avoid death, she'd been separated from her ammunition. And now she was out.

There was a silence outside. And then one of the raiders spoke up.

"Give up the ghost, rats." He shouted. "Yer outnumbered and outgunned!"

"Eat a dick!" Cait snapped back.

"Mmm…I bet you would, after me an' the boys get done with ya!" The raider said. "Now, why doncha come on out, and we won't fire ya to death."

But then another gunshot rang out. There was a wet exploding sound. Some scattered gunfire. Screams. Cait dared to peek over the counter.

One of the raiders was lying on the ground, head exploded from a direct hit. Maybe a sniper had gotten him. The two other raiders were currently firing at the closest threat. That threat being a figure in power armor, whose metal coverings was shrugging off their pipe pistol rounds like raindrops. Slowly and methodically, the power-armored figure advanced on them. They were screaming obscenities at the figure, but that wasn't discouraging its advance. And as it drew close, Cait saw that the figure was carrying an absolutely massive super-sledge. And it swung the thing as hard as it could.

The first raider was sent flying off to the side, hitting an old car that had been there since when the bombs dropped hundreds of years ago. There was a dull cracking sound, and the raider landed lifelessly in an awkward position. The second raider dropped his weapon, and fell to his knees pleadingly.

"Nah, man. Don't do me like this. Not like this!"

The armored figure stopped walking towards the raider, and was now towering over him. Then there was a snort. The figure shook its head.

"C'mon, bud. At least your friend over there took it like a champ."

"Fuck you!"

The figure looked somewhat confused.

"First you're complaining, and then your last words are 'fuck you?' Come on, you can do better."

"…Fuck off!"

"You're the absolute _worst_ at dying." The figure swung the super sledge like a baseball bat, connecting with the side of the raider's head and essentially turning it to pulp. "And it just sucks all of the absolute joy out of this job, I tells ya."

There's silence, as the raiders' corpses lie on the ground. The armored figure turned towards Cait, who ducked down somewhat lower than where she was before.

"Howdy, princess!" the figure said, waving his mechanized hand. "We aren't gonna kill you or your friend. Why don't you pop up on over here, and we'll speak more civilized-like."

"You just fuckin' pulped some raiders, and now you ask me to trust ya?" Cait asked, disbelievingly.

"Lady, I just waved your lives. Don't be that guy…er…gal right now. I sure wouldn't be that guy to go back on my word. Here, lemme prove a point." There was a clanging noise. "Now I've taken my helmet off. Can't we speak like civilized folk?"

Slowly, Cait and private Rivia peeked over the ledge. There was the man in the power armor, either X-01 or some sort of personalized T-51 (Cait couldn't tell), waving over at them like they were his friends. His super sledge was stained with blood. His disposition seemed rather sunny, despite the fact that he was standing in the middle of a couple of corpses.

"See? I don't bite." The man said. "Lemme go holler for my friend, and then we all can go on inside and talk it out."

Cait wondered if this was what Blue felt in dealing with what had to be the most random of encounters. Because if this was what she was in for, then perhaps she had been a little too eager to get out of the Castle.

At least things made sense in there.

A/N: A new year's present for the lot of you, as we cap off what has been a…well, I think I speak for most everyone when I say that I hope 2017 is a year worth remembering for the _right_ reasons, no? Enjoy the chapter, and may the new year bring about good tidings and fortune to you and your loved ones.

See you next time!

 _-The Fighting Irishman_


	5. Sparks in the Night

A/N: I own nothing except the laptop I wrote this story on.

Cait was many things. She was a boxer. She was a fighter. She was a pain in the ass, even to her closest friends. (The last thing was something that she took pride in)

But one thing that she was not was trusting. Especially to strangers that were decked out in power armor and who had just bashed in another man's brain with a super sledge as casually as if he had been ordering a drink over at the Third Rail.

So she trained her gun on him. Private Rivia, who'd managed to get over the shock of being ambushed, was nervously following her lead. Of course, he was far less confident in holding his rifle. Cait resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of all the people that the boss had sent to work with her, she had been given the greenest of the green. If she was willing to make the comment, she would have called him a coward right then and there. But then again, she was working with the kid. No need to scare him with the reality that he was probably going to fuck up and get killed at some point.

She decided to hold that last thought, too.

The guy in the super sledge was picking the gunk out of his super sledge, and he looked up to see that the two were pointing their guns at him. He half-jokingly held up his hands.

"Easy, sis." He said. "No need to do anything silly."

"Ya think I'm a damned fool?" Cait asked. "You bashed in that arsehole's head, and then you expect me to just walk on over so that we could get shitfaced and laugh?"

"You know, a drink does sound pretty good right about now." The man in the power armor admitted. "We ran out of our last bottle of Sunset a couple of days ago."

He didn't look all that special, to be honest. Power armor was good for disgusing the true size of people (hell, Piper looked absolutely massive in a set of T-51b) but this guy didn't seem like he was a giant outside of the armor. He had dark brown eyes, a veritable chocolate color, with wavy black hair that was mussed up and in desperate need of a haircut. Still, the way in which he carried himself suggested that he was not lacking in the self-confidence department. For better or worse.

"Sunset?" Private Rivia asked, half-whispering. The man in the suit laughed.

"Don't worry about it. That's more of a western thing. I'm betting none of y'all have heard of the NCR."

"The what now?" Cait asked.

"That's what I thought." The man said. He looked around. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but you thik we could get inside soon? I don't wanna be talking out here when another raider party comes around, sweetheart."

Cait responded to this by racking her shotgun.

"Call me a sweetheart again and I'll bloew yer head through your arse."

"Doubt it." The man said with a cheeky grin. "Because if you tried that, my friend would blow a hole through that wonderful chest of yours."

At this, Cait became aware of another presence in the distance. Crouching up on a car, with a hunting rifle trained on her chest, was another figure. She was dressed in typical wastelander "armor," and the only reason that Cait knew that she was a "she" was because no man would willingly dye the tips of his hair electric blue like that. But with the glare that she was giving her, Cait knew this woman was confident to dress however she damn well pleased.

"Easy, Crow." The man said. "We're just off to a little misunderstanding. The lady over her and we are most likely on the same size."

"Wanna bet?" Crow growled. Her voice was husky, like someone who enjoyed a good cigarette. And judging by the small carton hanging in her upper breast pocket, clearly she did like to imbibe. "What're you basing it on, Lymp?"

"Well, they haven't shot us on sight, if that's what you're asking." "Lymp" said. He turned towards Cait and Private Rivia. "Tell ya what. This whole Mexican standoff thing is giving me the heebie-jeebies." He slowly raised his arm that held the Super Sledge. "I'm gonna drop Lucille here. And then will you accept that as a sign that I don't want any trouble?"

Cait didn't say anything. Still pointing her gun at him, she made a rough grunt and pointed the gun towards the ground, gesturing for him to follow through. "Lymp" nodded slowly, and then set down the Super Sledge. With that, Crow slightly lowered her rifle. Only as soon as she did that did Cait lower her weapon.

"Okay, good." "Lymp" said. "Now, for god's sake can we get a campfire started? Bashing in raider heads makes a man hungry."

…

It was a strange situation. Private Rivia was gently stoking the fire, using the tinder and other materials that both Cait and the other two had brought with them. They'd all retreated up into a nearby clock tower, which gave a better view of the area. Hanging in the windowsill was Crow, who was aiming her rifle through the opening behind the clock head and the sill itself. That way, no one could see her and her rifle on the ground. But judging from the periodic reports, it was clear that she could see many more.

"Don't imagine we'll have any trouble with her watching our backs." "Lymp" had taken off his armor, and had joined Cait and Private Rivia around the little fire. Cait snorted to herself. Just like she thought, "Lymp" wasn't all that big. Stout, sure, but not tall. He didn't carry that majestic size the way the General did. That made her stop and wonder: how was her friend handling things back at the base? She'd probably have to radio in soon to give confirmation on her position. She'd been charged with a one-way radio kit to speak her location. To confirm that the Minutemen had received the message, she'd have to tune into the Minutemen radio show and listen for the secret message from Jonathan.

"Lymp" poked at the Brahmin meat stew that he was cooking inside an old ammunition container.

"Damn, that'll be nice and spicy." He said. He looked over at Cait and Rivia. "Don't think that we ever got a proper introduction." He flashed a cheesy grin. "Call me Olympus."

There was a pause.

"Ain't no way." Cait said. "That ain't yer fuckin' name."

"Well, no. And her's isn't 'Crow.'" He said, pointing towards his quiet friend as she fired another round. She'd covered up her head with a hood, so Cait couldn't see her expression. But she had an idea, based on the methodical way she was lining up shots. "But that's what we call ourselves. And that's what our employers called us." Olympus said. "Or, rather, what we let them call us."

"What did you do?" Private Rivia asked. He pointed to the garish design on the front of the power armor set, right in the center of the chest. "Does it have something to do with that big cat you've got on the front?" Olympus nodded, that wry smile never leaving his lips.

"Yep. That was our sigil. Call us the Hellcats. We raise hell for your enemies…for the right price."

"Mercenaries?" Cait asked.

"Of a sort." Olympus said. "Mostly dealt with farmers and settlers and such. Never contracted with major settlements. Probably because the local police got skittish about vigilantism, or some such. I mean, it makes sense: if your goal is to control the violence in an area, then you don't want another group coming in and doing your job better, right?" He smirked again. He looked over at Crow. "Isn't that right, Crow?"

She nodded once. There was a small cloud of smoke emitting from her hood. Clearly Crow had fired up a cigarette since the last time that Cait had looked over at her.

"Well, why'd you leave the west?" Private Rivia asked. "Didn't you have a good thing going?"

At this, Olympus' face darkened.

"Had a contract dispute." He said. But it was clear that that was as far as he was willing to go in describing the situation. "Crow and I came out east to find other business opportunities. So far…nothing."

"We only just got here." Crow said. BANG.

"Yeah, but I'm getting' restless, and Lucille is getting annoyed she doesn't get to dish out any justice lately." Olympus said. He pointed over at the Super Sledge that rested off at the side of the room. It seems somewhat menacing in the half-lit room, despite being only an inanimate object. He looked over at Cait and Rivia. "And what brings you around here?"

"We're traders. Trying to sell some stuff and maybe co-op with the traders in the Commonwealth." Cait said, reciting the script perfectly.

"…With geo-mappers?" Olympus asked.

The temperature dropped in the room.

"What?" Private Rivia squeaked. "We…we don't have geo-mappers. What are those?"

"Those nice little toys in your backpack, kiddo." Olympus said. "We aren't stupid. Part of our job out west was to help geo-map territory for farming. They taught us every trick in the book to dissuade raiders from stealing our shit. Plus, you two forgot something very important: no trader looking to get involved in a _co-op_ is going to be without a stock Brahmin."

Cait made a mental note to kill the General for forgetting this slight detail.

"So where does that leave us?" She asked, slowly reaching for the knife she kept hidden in the instep of her boot. Olympus shrugged.

"Still friendly." Olympus said. "See, I wasn't bullshittin' when I said that Crow and I are freelancers. And we got a code. It's either work with the raiders, which is probably not a successful plan, or work with the only people who have their heads screwed on straight. You two might have forgotten the Brahmin, but I bet your organization is pretty well-off." He steepled his fingers together with a smile. "So, this is my offer: we come along on whatever mission it is that you've gotten yourselves into. We'll be some protection, and some extra firepower. Won't ask any questions if you don't want us to. Think of us as bodyguards."

"And in return?" Cait asked.

"60 percent."

"Of the pay? You're fuckin' bandits."

"Got a better offer?"

Cait took a moment to think.

"55 percent and a chance to get your armor repaired free of charge at our home base."

At this, Olympus perked up.

"52 percent, throw in the armor as well as a free supply restock."

"That seems agreeable."

"Deal." Olympus reached forward with a hand, which Cait shook. His hand was tough and callused, a clear sign of a man who did a lot of work. Cait wasn't sure, but she figured that this couldn't be the worst possible decision that she had ever made. At least it doubled their firepower (or tripled, considering that Private Rivia was a wet blanket at this point). She would take what she was given.

She just hoped that Fusspot wouldn't kill her.

…

It was a rather jaunty evening. The streets were packed with citizens. There was a sense of drunken merriment, at least for the people coming in and out of the Third Rail. There was definitely a sense of guardedness by the local police, but all the same things were frightened. The people were on alert, but they weren't about to let that stop them from having fun.

Which was just the way he liked it.

"You're looking awfully chipper, boss."

He looked over at the ghoul next to him.

"Zinn, I'm tellin' ya, the trick to making it as a war-time mayor is to just keep the faith in the people. No need to pass a shitload of unnecessary laws just to keep the people inside all day."

"…Could your calm also be an offshoot of that weed you've been smoking, sir?"

"Definitely. Doesn't change the truth." Hancock turned towards his most recent cabinet appointee. "You're still learning Goodneighbor, and I've never afraid to dispense the free advice: gotta read the people. Diamond City? They might be more willin' to handle curfews and those sorts of things. Here? Goodneighbor? You try to raise the price of swill and there'll be mobs callin' for Whitechapel Charlie's processors."

"I'll admit that there's a bit more of a laissez-faire attitude here in comparison to Diamond."

"Pitt? Look. I love the guy, but I get the feeling that he's the sort who would tell the people what to do and how to live. Totally got their best interests in mind, but that cramps a good number of peoples' styles. He's the type who'd see 'good enough' and think 'gotta do better.' Might cost him an election or two."

"…Or two, boss?"

"You know, he's young. Might try running for election again."

"Oh, like Grover Cleveland."

"…Zinn, I've only been a ghoul ten years. I'm not as old as you."

"As you've reminded me every meeting." Zinn said. "Still, do you ever worry about the Quincy Boys trying to get into Goodneighbor? I mean, there was that Covenant scare, and of course the rumors that they're gonna make a push over at the Slog. That'd be suicidally brave-"

"Stupid, really."

"-Agreed, boss, but that doesn't change the point. Shouldn't we try to improve security? At least…a little bit?"

"We've got a reliable and worthwhile team, Zinn. Farenheit is way happier heading security ever since you took over the political wing of the office, so everything is firing on all cylinders. We're gonna have to be a beacon of hope and good will for the other places, you know?" He said. He chuckled, and started to walk ahead of his amused advisor. He started to sing to himself: "Ohhhh, I'm the type of guy, who likes to roam around…"

Zinn saw them before his brain processed it. A trio of men walking with far too much purpose towards the mayor of the city. They were also dressed out of place with the rest of the revelers in the city. And they were carrying knives, with red face paint.

"HANCOCK!" Zinn shouted.

" _QUINCY, MOTHERFUCKERRRSS!"_

The Quincy Boys converged on the mayor of Goodneighbor, with their knives and machetes raised high. Hancock barely had time to see them coming.

But it was enough.

He casually stepped forward, sidling between two of the three chargers. As he stepped, he used his free foot to trip one of them. The man was sent clattering to the ground, his knife skittering away. Like a mob, a swarm of Goodneighbor citizens engulfed the Quincy Boy, and proceeded to stomp and kick and punch the poor soul that had drawn their ire. The other two recovered, and turned around to face the mayor. They took their knives, and slowly drew them across their cheeks. The blood started to drip down their face and onto their necks, and they stared at the mayor of Goodneighbor with manic grins.

That was when Hancock pulled out his revolver and shot them both. One was hit between the eyes. The second was caught in the gut, and he doubled over. The third thug was thrown out from the crowd and back towards the feet of Hancock. He was a mess: arms and legs bent at awkward angles, bleeding profusely, and missing more than a couple of teeth to go with his swollen eye. Hancock stood over them, and tsked his tongue slightly. He looked over at Zinn.

"Like I said, Zinn. A beacon of light."

"I…I think you were just the subject of an attempted assassination, Hancock." Zinn managed to say. He was somewhat flabbergasted: he hadn't seen an attempted political hit on over 200 years, at least by the standards of the time. Ever since then, he'd seen outlaw executions, but this was different. This was an active attempt at killing an elected public official.

"Key word being attempted." Hancock fired another round into the chest of the already gut-shot Quincy Boy. He looked at the wretch at his feet. "Get this boy up, clean him up quick."

"No…trial…" The Quincy Boy murmured through a mangled mouth. "Quincy…Boys…"

"Hey, speak up, I can't hear you through broken teeth and gums." Hancock stomped hard on one of the guy's mangled legs. As the boy howled in pain, Hancock shrugged. "Whaddaya know? I can hear you now." He leaned in close, digging his heel into the wound a little more. "We're gonna clean you up, gonna tie you up, find out what you know, and then we're gonna toss you off the wall. Cuz you made a mistake, buddy: coulda tried Diamond City, Bunker Hill, hell even Sanctuary. But you chose the worst option." As the Quincy Boy was dragged away by the local police, Hancock turned towards the crowd.

"Nobody fucks with the people of Goodneighbor!"

The roar of the crowd was deafening. The party resumed, this time with even more swagger than before.

Some distance away, at an old and stone-laden structure on the coast of the old sea, a figure stood on the battlements. If he strained his eyes and his ears, he could catch a faint glimpse of the light coming from Goodneighbor and the music pulsating from the Third Rail. He couldn't stop himself from smiling. Of all of the cities within the protection of the Minutemen, Goodneighbor was the only one that did not take the suggestion to curfew or reduce lights at night. When the darkness crept across the Commonwealth, the lights stayed on over Goodneighbor. The city without fear. The city that spat in the face of the darkness.

Nate smiled a little bit more. But then his smile faded as he found his gaze shifting to the south. To Quincy. To the darkness. To the war.

And to the Man in Black.

A/N: And I'm back! Hope you all enjoyed this one. Next one shifts back to Quincy…

Also, credit to shadowwing135 for the characters of Crow and Olympus. Looking forward to using them…however _I_ wish. Heh heh…


	6. Politik

A/N: I own nothing except the laptop I wrote this story on.

A dirty and disgusting rainstorm permeated everything. Even the most wretched of souls that usually propagated Quincy's streets instead chose to find solace in whatever crude structures they could find. The sounds of violence and anarchy were reduced, if only for a moment. To an outsider peering inside the city, it would appear that the city was sleeping. But that would only be the view of an uninformed eye, of someone who did not know the truth of the city. For Quincy was not sleeping.

It was merely waiting.

In the stone library, they gathered around an ancient leather chair. He held court over them, with guards and only the most trusted soldiers standing guard to prevent the uninitiated and unneeded from barging in at the worst possible time. The only lights came from the fireplace and a few candles that were lit around the room. He liked the darkness; they had all come to endure it as a means of dealing with him. He was sitting in the chair, hands resting on the armrests. In the pallid light, it was hard to tell if he was merely resting his hands on the wooden knobs or if he was white-knuckle gripping them. No one dared to ask.

"Report." He said in that ominously bored tone. One quickly learned not to trust the tone of voice from the Man in Black. Randolph Lagg was equally as capable of murdering a man with a smile as he was a look of contempt. Even Mason had learned the hard way not to trust the moods of his boss: His jaw still ached from the last time he'd misjudged the mood of the Man in Black.

"The attack on Goodneighbor was a failure." Mags Black said. She was the only one who was dressed like she respected where they stood. She was in a black pantsuit with a white tie. The others were either in rags or dressed like they didn't care. The latter was Lagg; he was still wearing the same nondescript clothing he'd worn when he'd first blown into Nuka-World all those months ago. He'd looked just as bored then as he did now. Yet still, she persisted in making the report. "The three assassins did not wound the mayor of Goodneighbor. Two were killed outright, and the third was reportedly captured. I have every reason to believe that they are interrogating him as we speak."

"The Disciples do not break under interrogation." Nisha said, with a trace of defensiveness in her tone. "They can place my men in an irradiated hot spring, and they will die saying nothing."

"What's the mood of the city?" William Black asked. He looked half-asleep, like he'd been up too late the night before indulging in some of the inherent vices that floated through Quincy's streets. The Man in Black had no particular care about what vices his army partook in; if anything, he seemed to encourage a degree of hedonism. Will was all the more willing to take advantage of this.

"Defiant." Mags said. "Like we didn't do anything to them. They think they're untouchable."

"Which is precisely why they are vulnerable." Lagg spoke, startling everyone else in the room. He usually didn't speak until everyone was done with their reports. "Hubris is the downfall of man. It will be the downfall of Hancock."

"That being said, Boss, we don't have any idea what's going on in the city no more." Mason said. "Those were our best spies. And now they're gone."

"More will come." Nisha said. "The people flock to the Disciples like flies to the light."

"Spare us the preaching, Nisha." Mags sneered. "It's far too early in the day for your evangelism."

"Perhaps if you and your ilk spent more time on the hunt and less time snorting, you would also see the merits of my beliefs." Nisha said, threateningly revealing one of the many knives she kept clipeed to her belt. It was like watching a cobra rear back, daring to strike.

"You bore me." Lagg said, cutting them both off. He looked over at Mason. "The raiding parties are prepared, I imagine?"

"The nastiest hounds I have." Mason said. "Those skinless freaks won't know what hit them."

"Do not waste your time." Lagg admonished. "I want that place burned to the ground, and then you are to immediately make to the northeast. The more places that you put in a panic, the more the General will overreach in his defenses."

"When are we going to attack the Castle?" Mason asked. "My dogs grow weary of being cooped up in the pen that is Jamaica Plains."

"Patience, my hound of war." Lagg said, in a manner that was somewhat magnanimous. "You and yours will taste blood soon enough."

That was another part of his psyche that was unnerving. Lagg was equally capable of dispensing pleasantries, as he was a pejorative. No one was really sure where they stood with him. Mason smiled, much like a Doberman eying a bloody piece of meat.

"While they're burning that refuse to the ground and scalping the old man…where does that leave us?" Mags asked.

"Preparing." Lagg said. "The real masterstroke is not yet ready. But all of us have our role to play."

"And what is yours, in the end?" Nisha asked.

Lagg sighed, and looked up at the ceiling as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"This all ends with my hands around Nathanael Greene's choking throat."

He broke from his reverie, and then looked at the others.

"You have order to keep during this radstorm. Make sure the men and women are prepared and well-rested. Tonight, the dogs make their way to the northeast under the cover of darkness. The rest of us need to look towards the west. Check the rivers…" He looked over at Mags, and then to Mason, and finally to Nisha. "I will need an individual report from each of you, in due time. Mags will stay. The rest are dismissed."

As they all shuffled out, Mags looked at Lagg, who had deigned to get up from his leatherbound chair and stroll around the room. He was walking back and forth, observing the shelves of long-decaying books, silently giving his back to her. She finally realized that he was waiting for her to signal her readiness, and so cleared her throat.

"You wished to see me?" She asked, somewhat impatiently.

"Do you know the significance of this place?" Lagg asked. "Of the very room we're standing in?"

"I cannot say that I do." She said. She was still impatient. Something about the way the man spoke maddened her: his tendency to lapse into monologues about arcane and obsequious things threatened to bore her to sleep. And yet…she did not speak out against them.

"This is the Stone Library." Lagg said. "Once upon a time, there was a family that helped build this nation. They lived on this property. Over the years, they were there as the young United States…that's what this was before the Thirteen Commonwealths, mind you…pulled itself out of the afterbirth of the revolution. The patriarch was a president, his son followed. A grandson was a crucial writer and statesmen. The greatgrandson wrote the definitive history of his time. And so it went, until their line faded into the aether. But they live on." He looked around, his eyes tracing the ceiling. "Sometimes, when it is at its most quiet, I can hear their voices. This place hums with the energy of the past."

"I can't hear anything." Mags said.

"Of course not. It is a gift only reserved to a select few." Lagg said. And just like that, his introspective nature was gone and replaced by his trademark melancholy. "I have a manner to discuss with you. Of utmost importance."

"Oh?" Mags asked, a slow smile creeping onto her face. "And what might that be?"

She had been waiting for this moment, to be honest. Over the course of time, ever since he had first gutted Overboss Colter in front of them all, Mags Black knew that Randalph Lagg was special. Not only that, but he knew that she was special. Especially in comparison to those other bosses. Mags felt her skin crawl at the thought of Nisha, and her head ache at the stupidity of Mason. Both of them useful tools, nothing more.

Furthermore, she knew that he saw them the same way she did. And she knew that he was slightly more receptive to her counsel than the others.

She knew what he was going to say before he even began.

"The…termination of Clint has left me in an awkward position." He began. "And, as I am sure you are aware, he was my personal advisor."

"He didn't seem to do much, Boss."

"No, of course not. He was stupid and incompetent. But one's personal ineptitude does not diminish the importance of a position." Lagg said. "Which brings me to…you."

"Me, sir?" Mags asked, feigning innocence.

"Yes, you." Lagg continued. "You set yourself apart from the others, as I am sure you are aware. You are confident, composed, and a deceptively cunning mind. All traits useful for an advisor. But, above all, you are not afraid to speak to me the truth that I may not wish to hear. It certainly sets you apart from the others, who quake in their boots in the wake of my anger. But you…you do not. Which leaves me to my final question."

"That being, sir?"

"Don't 'sir' me. 'Randalph' is fine. I have travelled the world over, crossing the old United States many a time. And I have met many people, of differing races, beliefs, creeds, and otherwise. But they all shared one thing in common. Can you guess what that is?"

"They bled the same?" Mags asked.

At this, Lagg laughed. It was a strangely warm sound, far from what she expected. He stopped, and then looked at her with a smirk.

"Not a bad guess. But not quite. They all had one thing in common: they were afraid of me. Which leads to the question: Mags Black, are you afraid of me?"

"No, Randalph."

At this, Lagg walked closer to her. He kept walking, closing the gap. Just like that, he was standing inches from her. He seemed to encompass her entire vision, looming before her like something more than a man.

" _Are you sure?"_ He hissed in her ear.

Mags felt the hair standing up on the back of her neck. She wasn't sure if it was from fright…or from something else.

"Yes." She managed to choke out.

" _…Good._ "

And just like that, he backed away from her, and took a seat in his chair. The electricity in the air seemed to disappear. Mags took a deep breath, and blinked once to clear her head. And then she stared at him.

"I think you'd make a fine advisor, then." Lagg said. "After all, I cannot say that I've met many who say that they do not fear me. Something that I will need a lot of as we move to crush the Commonwealth in our hands. So, tell me, will you accept?"

"Yes." Mags said immediately. Lagg chuckled.

"Down, girl."

Mags felt herself embarrassed for no good reason. Why had she done that? She would not be so vulnerable in the future. He needed her to be strong and in charge.

"Your job is to report to me on the things you see…and the things you hear. Especially about the others. Am I clear?" He asked.

"Crystal."

"Good. Then for my first order to you as my new advisor, I need you to send for Nisha. I need to discuss with her the outburst she had in the meeting."

"Understood." Mags said. She walked off, looking away from Randalph Lagg as she daydreamed of the horrible tongue-lashing that Nisha would receive. She didn't see his jack-o-lantern grin behind her.

She left. A few moments later, the door opened and Nisha stepped inside. She saw him walking back and forth, observing the shelves of long-decaying books, silently giving his back to her. She finally realized that he was waiting for her to signal her readiness, and so cleared her throat.

"You wished to see me?" Nisha asked.

He turned to face her.

"I have a manner to discuss with you. Of utmost importance. But first… Do you know the significance of this place?"

…

…

 **CLANG**

"Conflab it, sir, I think I'm gonna stomp a mudhole in these darned plants and then walk it dry!"

"Well, if they don't start growing better razorgrain in the next few weeks, I have half a mind to join you."

Sheffield stopped his grousing, and looked up. The General was sitting on a rock, looking down on the garden of plants that Sheffield was meticulously caring for in lieu of firing a gun. Sheffield was the quartermaster general, recently promoted, but the man was a conscientious objector and claimed that he'd never fired a gun in his life. Thus, Nathanael rewarded his creed with a refusal to have him manage any of the guns in the Castle.

"Shit, sir. I'll let you stomp first if that's the case."

Nate grinned.

"Nah, I think it best that I see from the master first just how it's done." The General said. He cocked his head to the side. "Thirsty, Sheff?"

"A mite bit, sir." Sheffield admitted.

"Catch."

The General tossed a shining, ice-cold bottle of Nuka Cola towards the quartermaster. Sheffield stared at it, and then back up at the man who'd thrown it. It had all started with him as a beggar on the street, unable to afford a drink as others scorned him. Then that guy in a vault suit showed up, and tossed him a bottle of Nuka without even batting an eye. Now that man was the best hope for a free Commonwealth, and he'd given Sheffield a job in the Castle. And still talked to him, asking about that trader lady that Sheffield was talking to a little bit (Sheffield didn't think it was too late for himself to find love, and the General was all the willing to encourage it), and mostly keeping him company after a major firing of the guns.

Sheffield would die for the General.

"Drink up, Sheff. I'll be back ready to stomp if need be." He started to walk away, and then stopped. He leaned in. "Oh, Sheff?" He whispered. "I think that Carla is part of the trade caravan that's coming in this afternoon."

Sheffield stood up straight as a rod, and made a point to brush his hair a little bit. He wasn't too dirty, was he?

Nate took a quiet walk across the battlements. At the various firing points, he saw Minutemen meticulously checking their equipment. Colonel Shaw had been adamant that the Minutemen understand proper fire procedure and fire support, and was constantly drilling people on how to clean and maintain artillery. He watched them at work, and sighed. It was a shame. He remembered what life was like before war.

Actually, that was a lie. Because even in his past life, war was a constant reality.

He heard a whirring noise, and saw that the robot module was up and running. There was Major Danse standing careful watch over Isabel Cruz. The young inventor/tinkerer was hard at work designing a new chassis for Ada. The last two weeks, Ada was going around as an Assaultron. But, with the news that she might be seeing active combat soon, was no doubt in for a check-up.

Without making his presence known, Nate took a seat on a block of cement right behind Danse and Isabel. The former saw the General, and gave a knowing smile. Isabel was too wrapped up in her work to notice him.

"Do you want machine gun attachments or rocket launchers?" She asked.

"I'm not sure." Ada said. "I think I'm being used for 'fire support' according to the Lieutenant that's requesting my services at the Slog."

"Hmm." Isabel tapped her chin in thought. "Major Danse, what do you think?"

"The Slog is pretty fragile, all things considered." He admitted. "I think machine gun attachments are a safer bet. At least they're better at avoiding splash damage."

"Done, then. Here's to some gun hands, Ada!"

Isabel punched in the command codes, and the module got right to work.

"Ooh, that tickles!"

"I didn't think that robots could be ticklish." Isabel said.

"We're not." Ada said. "I was just messing with you."

"That's not very nice!" Isabel said.

"I must say, mistress Ada is rather facetious for a robot." Codsworth said, floating up beside the group. "I think her personality chip is rather glitchy."

"Don't mess with a lady with a machine gun, Codsworth." Ada said.

"I wouldn't dream of it, my dear." Codsworth said.

"Ugh. Robot snark. Can you guys just let me work?"

Nate chuckled a little bit at the indignant machinist, and left them to their banter. Danse silently signaled that he'd check in with the General later. Privately, Nate suspected that the straight-laced Major was sticking around not because he was supervising Isabel (who had cleared her "parole" ages ago), but rather because he was too entertained to leave.

And Cait called him a "fusspot."

Nate walked off the battlements, and through the armory.

"This gun weak. Strong need gun that matches name!"

"Um…what?"

"STRONG NEED **STRONG** GUN!"

"Oh. Well, I have a few things for you, Mr. Strong…"

Nate watched as the super mutant jawed with the armory master. Strong was being deployed out to Sanctuary. Though there wasn't a whole lot of action out there, Nate knew that the west half of the Commonwealth was thinly defended. Though that could be fixed with the strategic placement of a super mutant: Before he was recalled to the Castle, Strong had been part of the initial strikes on Jamaica Plains. He had killed at least fifty Quincy Boys before running out of ammo.

Making his way through the armory, Nate walked through the catacombs underneath the Castle. He heard moaning, and sighed. He was in the infirmary, after all. The nurses and doctors were walking back and forth at a brisk pace, administering care to those who needed it. Curie was right in the middle of it, furiously scribbling notes down on her legal pad as she kept track of who was wounded seriously and who was recovering and what medicine was being used.

She didn't smile as much as she used to. Nate felt a pang of sadness. Though Curie was still intellectually curious, she was also so very tired every day. And the war was weighing on her very soul. She may have once been a robot, but there was no denying the depths of her compassion were being tested.

"Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit."

Nate felt a deepening gulf of sorrow in his heart as he heard these words. For only one person would be speaking them, and for only one reason. He looked behind him, and saw a small crowd surrounding the hospital bed of a Minuteman who was wrapped in bandages. There were a few nurses there, administering care, and a few soldiers who had taken off their hats. But it was the speaker who Nate focused on.

His name was Michael Patrick, and his "official" title was "Faithkeeper," but most everyone on the Castle chose to call him "Preacher" or simply "Preach" for short. He was a large man, roughly six and half feet tall. He kept his head shaved and his beard trimmed, in an effort to make himself as old as possible. Which was a bit of a losing effort, as he was known to be only 22 by everyone. He was a former Follower of the Apocalypse – that order of humanitarians from out West – but had stayed behind from his troupe when they passed through the Commonwealth some months ago. His reasoning to his minister was "I am called here."

"May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up. Amen."

There was a moment of silence, and one of the nurses leaned in close and knelt her ear next to the bedridden Minuteman's mouth. And then she straightened up and looked at the others.

She shook her head.

One of the Minutemen who had stood vigil over his now-fallen comrade began to weep bitterly. The other turned and gave him a hug, while the nurses took to preparing the body. The young "faithkeeper" turned to face the mourning soldiers.

"You called me here to administer last rites." He said to them in a deep voice. "Know that your brother in arms rests well. He watches over you."

"Thank you, Preach." The less-despondent Minuteman said. "We didn't know what Jeff believed in, but we figured he'd want you here."

"I am grateful for your faith in me." Faithkeeper Michael said, holding his hand to his chest in a show of gratitude. "I imagine that the nurses will wish you to help transport him to his final resting place. If you need to speak to me, know that I am available."

He turned around, and saw that Nate had been watching.

"He was a brave young man, General." Faithkeeper Michael said. "He jumped on a grenade to save those two out on patrol."

"Greater love there is none than this…" Nate began.

"…than he who lays down his life for another." Michael finished. "You seem wearied, General."

"I am." Nate admitted.

"Would you like to walk up with me?" Michael asked. "Perhaps it would be best to see the sun."

…

As they took to the surface, they looked out over Quincy. A cloud of radstorms floated over the city, though they were looking to advance on the Castle.

"An oddly poetic visual metaphor." Nate mused. Faithkeeper Michael chuckled.

"I wonder if that's how the Garden of Eden looked after Man was ejected from it; a place of great reproach and danger."

"Of sin, perhaps."

"And the fall of man."

"Faithkeeper?"

"Yes, General."

"How many last rites have you given since you came here?"

"In regards to the fighting?"

"Yes."

"Any number of last rites given as a result of war are too many, General."

"I suppose that is true. Even in a just war."

"I do not believe such a thing exists, General." Michael said, dusting off his old prayer book absently. "It is possible for there to be a just _cause_ that could in a way reconcile the violence, but I do not believe that _any_ war can be construed as 'just.'"

"I am hard-pressed to disagree." Nate admitted.

"You may mourn the turn of events that has led us to this sorrowful path, General. But do not doubt the conviction of your _cause._ "

"Is there really a separation there?"

"Certainly." The Faithkeeper said. "I fight to keep the memory of faiths alive, after all." He gestured to his satchel, as he pulled out copies of holy books. "The Bible, The Torah, The Koran, The Baghavad-Gita…all these faiths I seek to preserve. You seek to preserve a free Commonwealth. That's as noble a cause as any."

"And yet each death weighs on me." Nate admitted.

"Which means that you recognize, at its core, the utter sorrow that is war." The Faithkeeper said. "That is the mark of a good leader, in my mind." He looked around. "I had best get to the mess hall. A few of the soldiers requested that I lead them in prayer. I need to brush up on my Du'a…" He looked at the General and smiled. "Stay resolute, sir. And be blessed."

He walked away.

Nate watched him walk away. He looked out towards Quincy, and saw the storm clouds making their way to the Castle. Soon everyone would have to take cover. Sure enough, the whistles were blowing, and soldiers were taking care to cover up things that could be damaged in the rain. Shaking his head, Nate retired to his quarters.

Danse was already at his desk, hard at work filling out requisition forms and writing letters. He adjusted his reading glasses, and looked up at Nate.

"Mr. Rook sends his regards by requesting some more sniper rounds."

"Of course." Nate said, fighting the urge to smile. "He and McCready practically control a quarter of the Commonwealth with their rifles."

"Two men to defend Salem…I will pay good money if that's all it takes." Danse said, shaking his head. "What troubles you?"

"I think about Cait and that greenhorn we sent with her." Nate said.

"They checked in about an hour ago. Picked up a pair of mercenaries, who radioed in to explain themselves."

"And?" Nate asked, tensing slightly.

"Cait is cagey. She wouldn't let them get that far if she didn't think that they were reliable. They're apparently named 'Crow' and "Olympus'."

Nate snorted.

"I know. I told them that those could not possibly be their real names." Danse replied, raising an eyebrow.

"And?"

"And they weren't. But for 'professional purposes' they asked not to disclose their real names."

"Is Cait doomed?"

"No." Danse said. "But I imagine that those two will be if they make the mistake of pissing her off."

"Undoubtedly." Nate said. He sat at his desk, and sighed. It seemed like the day was only just beginning, even though the sun was getting close to setting and he could hear the incoming thunder and lightning. He looked out the window, and sighed again.

"Damn this war." He said quietly.

Danse didn't look up from his desk. But there was a gentleness in his tone as he replied.

"I concur, Nate. I concur."

A/N: Took me long enough, but I have returned.


	7. Shockwave

A/N: It took me a long time to write this one.

It was a muggy and hot day, the kind that made one sweat in an uncomfortable way even if hidden in the shade and limiting movement. The sounds of flies could be heard buzzing around his head, and he groaned as he tried to keep his eyes closed. It had been a long night, as the litany of bottles around his feet were any indication. Things were pretty boring up here, and the old man had convinced him that it was worth it to at least have a single night to enjoy himself before the General or somesuch radioed in and made them go off "to the ass-end of nowhere for stuff that they could have sent to us ages ago." Something like that.

Still, having to deal with a hangover of this magnitude made MacCready wonder if things were really worth the cost of listening to old man Rook.

He shuffled a little bit, and blearily and warily opened his eyes. He was sitting in an old lawn chair, perched up high in the church steeple in the center of Salem. He had a picture-perfect view of the entire city, and of course the house that was at the far end of the coast that he and Rook shared. It used to be just Rook, but now MacReady was one of the inhabitants. There were a few settlers that had come into the city of late, but he could count on one hand the number at this point. And they were not the type that were in the settling business: one was a hired freelancer, the kind that MacCready and Rook were able to afford with the small stipend that Danse gave them as "auxiliary to the Minutemen." Some days MacCready wondered if this wasn't just a dangling carrot to get him to sign an official contract with the Minutemen, but he was not in any state of mind to consider wearing those silly dress blues.

Two were reformed raiders, the kinds of assholes that were only with them because they were that afraid of the Quincy Boys, or at least thought that they were crossing a line of some sort. MacCready wasn't interested enough in either of them to ask what it was that was the "line" that the Quincy Boys had crossed, but either way it was better than nothing to have a few more bodies in Salem. Chibs and Gunny, which was what they called themselves. Chibs was fat and ugly, but was dedicated and seemed to have legitimately turned over a new leaf. Gunny was thin and reedy, with the kind of face that should not smile lest he risk getting punched.

The remaining three kept to themselves for the most part, situated in the small guardhouse at the front of the city and just next door to the Salem Museum of Witchcraft. Didn't surprise MacCready; Brotherhood of Steel might be on their side, but in the boonies the rank and file didn't have to pretend to be cordial to the Minutemen or the riffraff that they associated with. As far as MacCready was concerned, those three were there and did their job and they didn't have any relationship beyond that.

He felt a rumble in his chest, and let out the kind of burp that hurts the back of the throat. He groaned again. He should not have tried that stuff that Rook was brewing in his basement all the time: it was the absolute worst.

Rook was an interesting cat. Old, cranky, and quick to curse you out. But he was the only one that had as good (if not better) an aim as MacCready, and the two respected each other because of that. They also both thumbed their nose at the Minutemen in a sort of impotent way, refusing to officially join the rank and file even though the Minutemen could absorb them if they wanted to. But it was that illusion of freedom that kept things going, and neither of them had any plans of abandoning the cause of the Castle. What was the alternative?

Quincy? As if.

There was a buzzing in his ear, and MacCready frowned as he adjusted his walkie-talkie.

"Jesus, Rook, can you keep it down? That brew is still hitting me in the head."

" _*BZZT* Well then you'd better drink some Joe and damn quick, boy! Got reports comin' in of action from *KSSSHHTTT* -log! It's bad, boy. BAD!"_

"Say that again?" MacCready asked. "You're not really coming in that clear, old man…"

But the words died in MacCready's throat, because the next thing that caught his eye was the sight to the southwest, as he saw a titanic explosion and flame coming from The Slog.

…

"Jesus _shit!_ " MacCready snarled, nearly falling out of his chair as he picked up his rifle. Totally sobered up, he peered down scope, and turned on his talkie.

"Chibs! Gunny! You see that?" He asked.

" _Damn right, boss!"_ Chibs responded in that thick voice of his. It always sounded like he had something stuck to the roof of his mouth. " _I think that came from the Slog! Can't see anything-wait, wait!_ "

MacCready looked through the scope. The Slog was a few miles away from where they were, so it wasn't like he could see everything perfectly. But getting closer and closer to where he stood, something else was coming into focus.

He could see ghouls running in abject fear from their home.

"Rook!" He barked into his walkie-talkie. "I think the Slog is overrun, I see ghouls coming towards Salem!"

" _What the sam hell are they thinking?_ " Rook snapped back. " _Don't they know this is stingwing territory? Hell, if the Quincy Boys don't get them, the local fauna and flora sure as shit will!_ "

"Not if we shake a leg." MacCready said. He switched frequencies, and spoke into the walkie. "Hey, tincans! You there?"

There was a pause.

" _This is_ _ **sergeant**_ _Mattis of the Brotherhood of Steel, designation Pepper Squad. What do you want, wastelander?_ "

"We have civvies coming our way from the Slog, several klicks southwest of us." MacCready said. "Can you get your boys out of their cots and into their tin cans, and lay down some support?"

A pause.

" _Several klicks southwest of us is that ghoul settlement, wastelander."_ Sergeant Mattis replied. " _And this is the middle of stingwing territory. My men are not miracle-workers; I'm not about to send them out into the thick of it without good reason._ "

"How about saving innocent people from dying, you heartless prick?" MacCready barked back.

" _Boss!_ " Chibs came in from another walkie talkie sitting next to MacCready. " _Gunny and I can see some stingers stirring! And I think I see some Quincys runnin' after the ghouls!_ "

"Then you two need to get on the auto-turret system and set it to fend them off! And spool up the minigun!" MacCready said. "We're gonna get busy damn quick, you two!"

" _Aw, how come we_ _ **never**_ _get to use the RPGs? I wanna use the RPGs just_ _ **once…**_ _"_ Gunny bitterly complained, but before long MacCready could see the turrets situated on the various rooftops coming to life and beginning their swivel-scans of the area. He hoped that Chibs and Gunny weren't stupid enough to accidentally paint the ghouls as enemies: he knew that Rook had set the guns to auto-scan for levels of irradiation…

" _It sounds like your 'fireteam' has things under control, wastelander._ " Sergeant Mattis replied. There was just a trace of condescension in his voice that was detectable, and it infuriated MacCready. They hadn't met more than once in their lives, and this asshole thought that he was better than all of them. He looked through his scope again, and saw the first of the ghouls had entered into his firing range. He also saw that there were some stingwings that were dangerously close to the civilians, and a few of the crazier Quincy Boys that were nipping at their heels. The Quincy Boys were engaging with the stingwings, but he knew that that was a mometary distraction at best.

It was time to pull out all the stops.

"Sergeant Mattis, if you don't get your asses out of that guardhouse and give us some of that Brotherhood firepower, then you leave me no choice!" He flipped on the radio next to him. "Homebase, this is Salem! I need immediate fire support, coordinates alpha alpha bravo!"

" _Say again, Salem?_ " The Minuteman artillery unit responded. " _That's danger-close to your position, isn't it_?"

"Stand-by!" MacCready barked.

" _Are you insane?_ " Sergeant Mattis snarled on the separate line. " _You cannot call an orbital strike on my position! I'll have you court-martialed and executed as a traitor to the cause!"_

"How am I gonna get court-martialled, jackass?" MacCready snapped back. "I'm not a member of the Minutemen!" He paused, and then spoke again. "Your call, Mattis. Either you get out there and help us help these people, or we'll see how tough that armor really is."

There was a long and very tense silence.

"… _Ensign Daniels and Cotter, suit up and begin perimeter sweeps. Anything that looks hostile, you have orders to terminate with extreme prejudice._ "

MacCready smiled, and then turned back to his Minutemen radio.

"Negative, home base. Abort launch coordinates."

" _Understood, Salem."_ The artillery unit said. And then it spoke again. _"FYI, MacCready, don't pull that crap. The General will skin you if he hears that you threatened your Brotherhood attaché._ "

MacCready paled as he realized that he'd forgotten to keep his conversations private. But then he nodded.

"Understood, base. Salem out."

…

MacCready looked down the scope, and saw that there was a pair of ghouls running from a stingwing that were all within his range. He saw that the bug was taking its time, lazily flying towards them as if engaging in a sense of sadism. They were stumbling over themselves to get away, and it was dangling its long probiscus like some sort of spear towards them. It clearly was savoring the moment.

But so was he.

He fired once.

The bullet cut the creature in half, vivisecting it in a messy vertical explosion. The bullet had whistled past the ghouls, who flinched in shock but continued quickly and continued running. MacCready ejected the spent round, and peered down the scope again.

There was a pair of Quincys, firing after a few ghouls.

BANG.

First shot caught the Quincy on the left, jackknifing the bastard with a direct hit to the sternum.

Expend round. Pull back. Steady aim.

BANG.

The second Quincy got caught in the right temple.

Expend round. Pull back. Steady aim.

BANG.

This round punched through the back of one stingwing that was literally about to prey on a fallen ghoul, and nicked one behind it. Two for the price of one.

This was Robert Joseph MacCready's element. It never took him long, but when he disappeared into the tunnel vision that his scope provided everything was so much more simple. So much more defined. And so much more in control. The wasteland had no power over him. Death itself could not faze him. When Robert MacCready had something in his sights, he ceased to be a man and instead became an instrument of the end.

BANG.

Another one down.

But far too many to go.

The ghouls managed to reach the city limits of Quincy, which brought them within the protective range of Salem's auto-turrets. Immediately, the machines began to whine as they registered the level of radiation in the ghoul bodies. But while Chibs and Gunny were dumb muscle, they were not completely stupid. They did their job, wired the guns properly, and no ghoul was caught in the crossfire.

The same could not be said of the stingwings.

As the natural danger began to disappear, dissuaded from their prey by the irritating guns, the new danger shifted towards the approaching Quincy contingent. MacCready looked away from his scope, reloading as he did, and nearly dropped his gun as he saw the sheer size of the advancing force. There were so _many_ of them. How had they slipped past the patrols of the Minutemen? Had they been moving all this time in the cover of the dark, so that they were invisible to even the best of the trackers? Or were there simply this many of the Quincy Boys, and even the General had underestimated the number of his enemy? None of those questions had inviting answers.

There was a flash of green, and a pair of Quincy Boys were disintegrated into grey piles of goo. The trio of Brotherhood soldiers had entered the battlefield, their plasma miniguns spooled up and raining a hellish blitz on the Quincy Boys that were dumb enough to stay out in the open. Those that did were cut down. The smarter ones got to cover, and started to lay suppressing fire.

" _Wastelander MacCready, this is sergeant Mattis. We are engaging the enemy. We will be able to force them back outside of the town, but we only have the ammunition for a limited engagement. Would appreciate some covering fire so that we can get out of the open."_

MacCready watched as the rounds from some of the Quincy guns seemed to just bounce off of the sturdy Brotherhood armor, and raised his rifle towards the closest Quincy boy he could see. That one was big, covered in leather armor, and had his face painted bright. Probably one of the leaders. But that paint made him a pretty big target.

Pretty stupid, in retrospect.

BANG.

…

Chibs took a deep breath as he punched in a few codes into the auto-turrets, and watched as the one on the roof across from his house jerked awake and began to fire. He looked over at Gunny, who was busy fidgeting with the RPG.

"Gunny! Maybe use that RPG on a big group of Quincy boys when those ghoulies get out of the way, yeah?"

"Shit, they don't pay us enough to save ghoulies, bro." Gunny said. He shrugged. "Fuckin' whatever. This beats getting hanged at the Castle." He peeked out the window of the house, and aimed his RPG. "Might wanna get the old man notified. I see a few of the ghoulies are running down our street."

He fired the RPG.

There was an explosion in the distance.

 _"Son of a goddamn whorin' fool, who's the damned bastard that shot that RPG?_ " Barney Rook growled over the walkie talkie line. " _You dummies nearly cleaved the ghouls!_ "

"Sorry, sir!" Chibs said. He wiped the sweat off his brow as he turned off the walkie-talkie, and then looked over towards Gunny. "Jesus, you stupid fuck! Watch where you're aiming that thing!"

"It's a fucking RPG, you don't _aim_ shit!" Gunny said, raising his voice for once.

"Well, fuck you man, I'm gonna go get the ghoulies in here." Chibs said, picking up the stimpaks and running down the stairs to the first floor. He kicked open the door, and waved down the ghouls that were in eyesight. "Get in here, you freaks! We're on your side!"

He held the door open as the first of them, a family of crying ghouls, ran inside. One of them was bleeding profusely.

"Shit, clear the table and get that guy on it!" Chibs said. One of the ghouls swept the table clean, and laid the bleeding ghoul on it like a makeshift surgeon's table. "Anyone a doctor?"

"The doctor from the Slog is dead!" One of the ghouls that just entered the house said. "None of us have any training!"

Shit.

Chibs looked at the bleeding ghoul on the table, and then upstairs. And then at the stimpaks in his hand.

Shit, shit, _shit._

"Shit. Okay!" He said. He pointed to a few of them. "You! And you! Get upstairs and grab a gun and start shooting back if you can. Someone else, help me with this guy." He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a hankerchief. He looked around. "Uh, get this wrapped around his arm right above where it's bleeding. That should help."

One of the older ghouls grabbed the hankerchief, and fastened it tightly. The ghoul on the table howled in pain. Chibs reached for the nearest and fullest stimpak that he had, and hastily jammed it into the spot where he figured the ghoul's veins were. He pulled the plunger, ignoring the ghoul's wailing. But then the wailing subsided, at least a little bit.

"I think that went in." The ghoul helping him said. "Now we can check the other wounds and bandage them up."

Chibs felt a wave of relief. That was the first time he'd ever had to play medic. And it seemed like he did okay. But then he had to be a fool and open his mouth.

"Anyone need a doctor?" He asked.

He was soon swarmed by the frightened and injured ghouls.

"I'm gonna need more stimpaks." He said.

…

MacCready fired again, and watched as yet another Quincy boy died. He looked over, and saw that the Brotherhood men were falling back to a safer location. The initial push by the Quincy boys was dying down, but that didn't change the fact that there were still so many of them hiding in the trees and the ravine just to the west of the city.

He heard footsteps behind him, and turned around to see Barney Rook had appeared.

"The hell have you been?" MacCready asked.

"I'm the man that heard about this shit, so really you should be thanking me that we even did this good!" The old man growled back. He tugged on his knitted cap. "Heard reports late last night that there was some movement to the north of the Jamaica line, but I sure as shit didn't expect them to go after the fucking _Slog._ "

"They hate ghouls, Barney." MacCready said. "That shouldn't surprise you that much."

"Well, yeah. I mean the nuttiness of going this far north. Don't they realize what they're getting themselves into? I mean, they've got three Brotherhood men who –while total and complete assholes – are some of the best soldiers in the whole contingent. Chibs is stupid but does his jobs well when he is told, and Gunny blows things up. And then there's you and I, and that's enough to take down at least a couple dozen men just like that. They just can't win this one. They have to be insane."

"Or maybe they just really fucking hate us." MacCready said. He just shook his head, and watched as the Quincy boys outside the city began to dig in for the siege.

…

"This geo-cacheing mission of yours important?"

Cait resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This Olympus guy sure liked to run his mouth. Not that the General didn't; the difference here was that the General could back his mouth up with action. As far as she knew, this Olympus guy was just talk and a big hammer.

"Yes." Cait said.

"Jeez, lady. Just makin' conversation."

"Uh, captain Cait isn't really one for conversation." Private Rivia said. Olympus looked back at him.

"What's your name, new meat?"

"Uh…Rivia."

"That's your name?"

"It's my last name, sir."

"I'm no sir, son. Just a guy looking to make his way in the wastes. Well, at least we're on last name basis. That's a start. What do you think, Crow?"

No answer.

"That means she likes you." He said.

"Arsehole." Cait said.

"It's part of my charm."

They had been walking along the shores to the south of the Castle for some time now. Something about the lack of enemies was unnerving, but all the same Cait wasn't about to complain. It meant that their job was comparatively easy. So far, they'd laid down a few geo-trackers, and by her estimate they'd be in visual sight of Quincy within a day or two. And then she could just go home and wait for them to finish this damned thing.

Cait stopped and looked down at the shoreline in front of them.

"This is probably a good spot." She said. "Move to cover."

The three soldiers around her got into position, and set up a defensive perimeter. As Crow scanned the horizon with her sniper rifle, Olympus turned towards Rivia.

"So…you ever been laid, kid?"

"Excuse me?" Rivia asked, blushing furiously.

"Shut the fuck up!" Cait hissed.

"Just wondering." Olympus said. "I was just thinking that the whole awkward, bumbling routine was some sort of ploy to get into many a lady's bed. What do you think, Crow?"

"I've had worse."

"Christ will you two shut up?" Cait asked, as she finished putting the geo-tracker in the dirt.

"No…I wouldn't say that I have." Rivia said. "I'm just…me…"

"Oh?" Olympus said. "So this whole wimpy routine isn't just a routine, but is actually you?" He turned around to face them all. His smile was gone. "Then do me a favor, kid. You need to harden the fuck up. I can practically smell the piss between your legs, and you will assuredly die before we return back to your base if you don't start acting like you're supposed to be here."

"But I-"

"Shut the fuck up. That's the first thing." Olympus said. "The first step to survival here? Don't be so kindly. Friendly? Sure. But don't tell me that you don't have a plan to kill everyone you meet or see. I already know, off the top of my head, at least two ways to get all three of you right now from this position. And if you can't name one for me, then you're fucked."

There was a silence.

"Jesus." Cait said. "Could you maybe not be so damned harsh on the kid?"

"It's for his own good." Olympus said. "I've worked with plenty like him. Hell, I've _been_ him. It's only gonna get him killed. There's no room for crying in war."

Cait finished covering the geo-tracker.

"Done." She turned on her radio. "Base, this is…what?"

It was her tone of voice. Her tone of voice caused them all to look at her. The sun was setting, but they could clearly see the look of shock on her face.

"…Say that again…what? No. No, _fuck you you're_ _**lying**_ _!_ "

She threw the radio kit away, and fell to her knees. She covered her face in her hands, and began to sob.

As Crow and Olympus walked over to her, Private Rivia walked over to the radio kit and picked it up.

"Baseplate? This is, uh, this is private Rivia. Captain Cait is with our mercenaries right now. What happened, sir?"

The voice on the other end was eerily devoid of emotion.

" _You might want to sit down, son._ "

…

 **ONE HOUR EARLIER**

"So tell me, how's the squad looking?"

"Pretty good, reporter lady. I'd say that we're the baddest bunch in Colonel Garvey's unit."

"If that's the truth, then why on earth are you guys stuck here on the ass-end of the line?" Piper Wright asked, raising an eyebrow. She knew that she needed to get in a story before the end of the night, but all the same she wasn't sure that she wanted to get it byinterviewing these meatheads. "Maybe if you guys start thinking with your heads instead of your dicks, you might give me something actually worth putting in the _Publick._ " She stood up, and brushed some dust off of her coat. "Anyway, I'm headed back to the command post. Send a runner if anything interesting happens."

She left the deflated pool of testosterone behind, and walked away.

The command tent was snug and safe at the far reachs of the line, but all the same Piper never felt that secure there. Even though Preston Garvey was perhaps the perfect person to run that place, Piper was always slightly ill at ease. Perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps that was what kept her alive. She might good with a pistol, but that was when she was with Blue. Something about being with him made her stay alive and luck out in crazy, balls-to-the-wall situations. But she wasn't a professional soldier. And this was a situation where a professional soldier's mindset was needed.

"Everything okay, Piper?"

Speaking of professional soldiers…

"Yeah, yeah I'm okay Preston." Piper said. She watched as the leader of the contingent of the Minutemen and Blue's best soldier walked over and took a seat on a crate next to her. "Just stressing out about this story that I have to write."

"Do you really need to write a story every night that you're out here?" Preston asked, a wry smile on his face. "That's exhausting, and I barely get any sleep myself."

"It's my job, Preston."

"No, it's your _life._ And you're going to burn out if you aren't careful, Piper." Preston said. "Besides, who are you trying to talk to all the time? Aren't you getting tired of haring the same jargon from us military grunts?"

"A little." Piper admitted. "Maybe I need better interviewees…" She trailed off, and looked at him.

"Me?" Preston asked.

"You're the only one I haven't talked to." Piper said. "Perhaps the people will better appreciate things if they hear it from the field commander how things are going?"

Preston sighed.

"I was never good at speaking on these sorts of things." He said.

"Just talk, I guess." Piper said, turning on the recorder.

"Well, things are tough. That much is the truth." Preston said. "I talk to the General every day. I just spoke to him a little bit before I walked in here, actually. He and I didn't really talk as soldiers. I think he just needed to hear from a friend. And I consider him one. But that's important for soldiers; we need that reminder that we're human, too. Keeps you from cracking up."

"Are you cracking up?" Piper asked, raising an eyebrow playfully. Preston chuckled.

"No. But not from lack of trying! Truthfully, I think that if this were any other situation, I would have cracked up a long time ago and bought a retirement home in Sanctuary."

"Any other situation?" Piper asked. "You _do_ realize what we're fighting in, right?"

"I do." Preston said. "But that is actually what brings me back. That's what keeps me out here." He paused, and looked off towards Jamaica Plains.

"History is full of wars that were fought for hundreds of different reasons. But this war? _Our_ war? I want to believe…I _have_ to believe…that every step across this plain, every man that's wounded, every man that I lose…that it's all worthwhile because our cause is just."

Piper sat there in silence, realizing that she hadn't asked a follow-up question. She cleared her throat.

"Do you believe that this is a just cause?"

"A chance for the Commonwealth to decide its own fate, and not be beholden to tyrants or tyranny or the dangers and death that lurk around every corner?" Preston asked. "For a chance for our kids and their kdis to rebuild the United States of America, and everything that it stood for in our faded memories?...Yeah. Yeah, that's a pretty fucking just cause." He paused. "Maybe I shouldn't have cursed."

Piper laughed. Preston joined her. They laughed for a few moments. And then when the laughter subsided, Preston stood up.

"I think maybe you can use my quotes…edited, perhaps, but good all the same. Should at least help out a little bit…but make sure you get my men in first. They're the ones fighting on the frontlines. I'm just there for them."

"Preston, don't make it seem like you're not doing anything." Piper said. "You're doing so much. You're doing too much. If ever the Minutemen had an exemplar, it'd be you."

"You're flattering me, Piper." Preston said. "But thank you. I'm pretty lucky that we both met the General. We're gonna build a damn good world with him at our side, aren't we?"

"Yeah…" Piper said. She smiled, somewhat dreamily. "I think we will."

"I'm sure you two will be very close." Preston said, a twinkle in his eye.

"What? We're not dating-I mean, we're just friends, Preston. You ass! Don't put words in my mouth!"

"I never said anything." Preston said. His smile was only brighter. "You're fun to be around, Piper."

"And you're a good guy, Preston." Piper said, shaking her head with a smile.

He doffed his hat, and walked off.

As soon as he was out of her eyeline, she started to scribble in her notepad.

 _What is the motivation of soldiers? Is it the thrill of combat? Or is it something more? Something greater_?...

She stopped. She wasn't sure, but maybe she might as well take a break. Maybe Preston was right.

Maybe sometimes you just needed to rest.

…

Some time passed. Piper was sitting next to the crate, penciling in her notes before she prepared for the dictation that she was going to recite to Jethro back at the _Publick_ , when a single gunshot rang out. That was, in and of itself, odd. Usually, shots were fired in torrents in Jamaica Plains. A single shot was odd.

There was a pregnant pause. And then she heard it.

"M-m-m-m-mm-mmm-muh-muh-muhh- _ **MEEEDDDIIICCCCC!**_ "

That scream was enough to get everyone in the vicinity to look over in the direction of the soldier's scream. A few medics did rush over. By now, a confused crowd was looking over in the direction of the shout. Piper put her notes down, and walked over to the edge of the tent. She saw that there was a confused crowd of soldiers around her. But then she heard chatter on the radio, and saw two more medics rush past them all. They were devoid of emotion, and ran with a purpose.

Something tingled in Piper's gut. Something had happened.

There was an agonizing wait of a few moments. And then one of the soldiers who had been down the line ran back towards the command tent. Just from the look of him, the frightened look in his eyes and the shrunken look in his posture, Piper knew that this was the boy who had called for the medics. He started to speak, but then he fainted outright. A few soldiers rushed over to him, cradling him as he came to and started to blubber a little bit. One of the older soldiers shushed quietly in his ear, the way a father might calm a crying child, and waited for the man to calm himself.

Even then, the poor boy looked like he couldn't speak. His eyes were red, and he was puffy-cheeked. He knew he had to speak, but he knew that he didn't want to.

"What the hell is it, son?" The old soldier who had succeeded in calming him said.

The boy spoke, just barely managing to get through it all before bursting into tears. His voice was barely above a whisper.

But everyone heard him.

And each word fell like an anvil.

"Sniper got the skipper. Colonel Garvey's dead."


	8. Aftershock

A/N: It took me a long time to write this one.

He looked like he was sleeping.

Piper couldn't get the image out of her head as she watched them carry the body back on a stretcher. In any other situation, she would have thought he was having a peaceful rest, dreaming about something that gave him serenity.

But it was all wrong. He was missing his hat. This wasn't right. There was a hole, disturbingly clean, in his left temple. This wasn't right. He was supposed to get right back up, and start issuing commands, reminding the General of the many settlements that needed the help of the Minutemen. This wasn't right.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

He'd probably died instantly. She at least hoped it was painless.

There was a clattering noise. Piper looked over to see that one of the Minutemen nearby had thrown his rifle to the ground, both out of grief and rage. The man crumpled to his knees, burying his head in his hands and sobbing. There were a few others who were rendered similarly inconsolable. But even with their grief, the silence that seemed to permeate the air was suffocating. There was something truly haunting. It was as if something had broken within all of them, and the last of hope had been extinguished.

Piper silently followed the group of soldiers that were serving as the impromptu pallbearers, as they carried the body of Preston Garvey back to the command tent. No doubt they were going to clean him up and prepare for transport back to the Castle. There was no way that they were going to bury him out here in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of the dirt and muck and slime that had buried so many other bodies in the weeks that they'd spent fighting over this worthless city.

They hadn't even pushed the Quincy Boys out of Jamaica Plains. And now they had lost their commander. It was like they'd all lost a limb.

"AHHHHHH! FUCKING FUCKERS!"

One of the Minutemen had grabbed a machine gun, and was firing aimlessly towards the city limits. "COME GET SOME!" He was screaming through tears. "YOU FUCKING COWARDS!"

Piper wasn't sure what motivated her in that moment. But something in her stirred.

"Put that _down,_ you idiot!" She shouted, grabbing the rifle and wrestling back and forth with the soldier.

"Let _go,_ civvie!" The man spat at her. He looked like a wretch, his face twisted into a mask of anger and rage and grief. "They killed my commander!"

CRACK.

Piper wasn't the best at hand to hand combat. She was better with a sidearm, anyway. And she usually let Blue handle the close range things whenever she went out with him into the field. But he had taught her a couple of things here and there. And one of them was how to shove a rifle side into someone's face, snapping their heads back.

As the rifle clattered to the ground, she kept it old school and slapped him across the face.

"He was _my_ **friend.** And you're just going to get yourself killed if you do this! Get back to your post, you stupid kid! Now!"

The soldier stared at her.

Piper narrowed her eyes.

"Don't tempt me into doing something I'll regret." Piper sneered, not-so-subtly gesturing to the 10mm clipped to her belt. The soldier blinked once, blankly, and then quietly returned to his post. Piper watched him go. And then she stormed off away from everyone else. Not even the acting commander of the Minutemen force could stop her.

She made it into the safety of her tent. She zipped it shut. And as soon as she was sure she was alone, she collapsed. She felt the hot tears pouring down her cheeks, and she felt herself moving forward and hands and knees to her cot. She climbed onto it, and hastily tore through her personal bag until she found what she was looking for.

Doc Weathers had told her that, if she wanted to keep the chronic pain from that shrapnel in her shoulder from acting up, she needed to take very regulated doses of the medicine she now held in her hands. But anything more than that…and it was more addictive than Jet.

She'd thought about adding a little more to her dosage for a while now. Hadn't told anyone. Not even Nat. Anything to get over the constant deluge of death and suffering and stress of trying to buy into a future for the Commonwealth that, right now, seemed to be completely full of shit. As she thought this, she stuck the needle in her arm. All she had to do was pull the plunger, and hold it a little longer than normal. One second could be a few milligrams more. Just enough to dull it all, but not enough to get her addicted.

She was about to push the plunger, and then she saw his face. The soft smile, with the trusting eyes. She felt her thumb hovering over the plunger. Just do it. Make him go away. Make it all go away. Just for a little bit.

She pushed down on the plunger. Had to hold it for five seconds. Anything more was too much.

 _One…_

 _Two…_

 _Three…_

He wasn't fading away.

 _Four…_

He was still in her eyes.

 _Five…_

" _Goddammit!"_

She let go of the plunger, ripped the needle out of her arm, ignoring the blood that was now leaking out. She'd deal with that later. She'd taken the dose she was supposed to take. Not a second more.

Even in death, he was still looking out for her.

"You fucking asshole, Garvey. You fucking, _fucking_ asshole." She managed to mutter, burying her head in her pillow and sobbing.

…

"Kid, you there?"

Private Rivia blinked once. Olympus and Crow were staring at him, a look of concern on their faces. He nodded slowly.

"What happened?" Olympus asked.

"Our acting field commander was KIA." Rivia said slowly. "Colonel Garvey's dead."

Olympus' eyes widened.

"Shit, Garvey? Isn't he, like, number two or three on the chain?"

"Officially two." Rivia said. "Major Danse doesn't hold a battlefield commission, and the General is at the top and is the commander in chief."

"Motherfucker…" Olympus said. He looked over at Cait, who was staring at the ground with a catatonic look in her eyes. "…Hey, 'leesh. Go talk to her."

Crow nodded, and pulled down her tattered hoodie. She walked over to Cait, put an arm around the woman's shoulder, and started to whisper to her quietly. Olympus looked over at Rivia.

"Let's you and me give them some space." He said. They walked over towards the waterfront, where the endless sea seemed to stare back at them. Once upon a time, Rivia had heard that it was called some sort of ocean. He wasn't sure what the name was, though. Just that it was an ocean. They took a seat on a broken piece of driftwood, watching the waves lap the shore in front of them.

"You didn't call her Crow." Rivia said, breaking the silence.

"…Yeah." Olympus said. "I guess I didn't."

"What's her name?" Rivia asked.

"…Alicia." Olympus said quietly. "Alicia Crowley."

"That's a nice name." Rivia said. "Why don't you call her that?"

"Because calling her 'Crow' makes it easier in case…" Olympus trailed off. He looked away. "I don't know if she'd like me calling her by her name more often. I mean, I'd like to…but, uh, I don't think that…never mind. Forget I said anything. Her name's Alicia. But her nickname is Crow."

"What's your name?" Rivia asked.

"Huh?"

"You. You've got a name, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah I do."

"You hesitated. Is it embarrassing?"

"A little."

"Mine is pretty bad, too."

"Really?" Olympus asked. "How bad we talking?"

"I'm only going to tell you if you tell me yours."

"Fair enough. Spill it."

"…Geralt."

"…Geralt? Your name is Geralt Rivia?"

"I think I'm named after someone. Nobody important, I don't think. Otherwise I wouldn't feel so damn embarrassed every time I hear my own name." Private Rivia said.

"That's not a bad name." Olympus said. "It's better than mine."

"What's your name?"

"…John Stewart."

"You're embarrassed because _that's_ your name?"

"It's so boring!" Olympus said. "Like, wouldn't it be better to have a name like 'Geralt'? At least that _sounds_ like a hero. I just sound like a regular guy."

"What's wrong with that?" Rivia asked. "Maybe it would be better if more people tried to be regular guys instead of heroes."

Olympus looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

"You don't have much for ambition, do you?"

"Ambition is for maniacs." Rivia said. "Look at Quincy." He gestured to the sprawl in the distance.

"It looks pretty fucked up from here." Olympus admitted.

"It's gonna look like a fuckin' crater when we're done with it."

They turned to see that Cait was standing up and facing the city in front of them. She had a frightening look in her eyes, and an eerily blank expression on her face.

"Say what, now?"

"We're going into Quincy." Cait said. "We're not gonna give the Castle some 'coordinates' for a 'coordinated bombardment.' We're gonna fucking drop everything right on those bastards' heads."

"Were those your orders?" Olympus asked.

" _FUCK_ my orders!" Cait suddenly yelled, causing everyone (even Crow) to jump. "My fuckin' friend dies and I'm s'pposed to follow _orders?_ Garvey followed fuckin' orders and he didn't get shit. We're gonna do what we gotta do to end this goddamned war." She stared at them threateningly. "I'm the boss here, after all. We go in, we wire some trackers, and then we radio in the coordinates. And then we step back and watch as that entire fuckin' city…" She trailed off. "Lemme put it this way. You ever heard of Braintree?"

"…No?" Olympus said.

"Funny. Cuz I expect the next guy to say the same thing when I ask if he's ever heard of fuckin' _Quincy._ " Cait growled. "Pack up your shit. We're moving."

…

The mood in the Castle was awkward and silent. The news of Colonel Garvey's death had come almost immiedately after it had happened. Jonathan, that dedicated radio man, had reported it with an almost inhuman calm…only to devolve into understated tears shortly after making the radio report to the Minutemen channels. He'd managed to keep it together as long as his job asked him to, and now he was seeking the counsel of Father Michael, the faithkeeper who had an overbooked day by the sheer number of men and women that were in line to meet him at his quarters for spiritual guidance.

He'd decided to cancel one-on-one meetings, and instead announced that he would be conducting a small service in the Castle garden for anyone that was interested. Judging from the sheer number of people that were now gathering in the garden, it was clear that many were hoping to find something in his words.

He was standing on the battlements, watching the silent congregation gather and prepare for the service. Danse had never really had much time to dig into the nature of divinity, spirituality, or even matters of life after death. He was rather apathetic towards it in his life prior, and ever since he discovered he was a Synth that question had been further purged from his mind. He saw the comforting aspect of it, certainly, but he did not have any particular pull towards it.

Maybe it was the synthetic components within him that drove that thought. Maybe it was his true personality that allowed him to compartmentalize. But either way, he was more concerned with making sure things did not completely unravel.

All of the Commonwealth seemed to be in mourning.

He heard fireworks in the distance. He looked over towards the horizon, and saw Quincy alight in flames and color. Fireworks. They must have heard of the passing of Colonel Garvey, and decided to react in a manner that they saw appropriate.

Animals.

"Uncle Danse?"

He blinked, and looked down. There was Shaun. The boy must have come up to find him a few moments ago.

"Shaun?" He asked quietly. "What are you doing up here?"

"I was looking for Dad, but I think he wants to be alone right now." Shaun said. Danse realized that, whether Shaun knew it or not, that meant that he needed to see the General as soon as possible. Leaving the General alone was not a good idea.

"Uncle Danse?"

Danse blinked, and looked down at the child before him.

"Yeah, Shaun?"

"Did Uncle Preston die?"

Danse wished that Shaun wasn't so…blunt. He wished that, while the child's intellect and curiosity and heart stayed the same, that he hadn't been raised to be so forthright. Because such a harsh reality coming from the mouth of a child was..unnatural. If Shaun was in his teens, or even a young adult, perhaps it would have barely registered on Danse's radar. After all, people get killed in war. Even commanders.

But children should not be so desensitized to such horrors.

"He was a brave man, Shaun. And even though he's gone…" Danse trailed off.

"He's still with us, right?"

Danse blinked. He knew that the General was, if not necessarily religious, certainly a strangely spiritual man. He thought that that was more a sign of Nate's agreeability and kindness that encouraged people of that mindset to come to him rather than a desire to convert and evangelize. But as he stared at Shaun, he wondered if heaven – should it exist – had a place for synthetics like himself and Shaun. He'd long since stopped caring one way or the other what happened to him…but Shaun hadn't had that cynicism poison him. Danse wasn't about to be the one that started that process.

"He, and the memory of those that we love, are always with us." Danse said quietly. "So long as you remember him, he lives."

Shaun stared at him with a thoughtful expression. He furrowed his brow. He then looked out into the distance and stared at Quincy.

"I hope that Dad shows those Quincy people that there's more to life than killing and being mean and hurting people." He looked back at Danse. "Dad's gonna be okay, right?"

"He's a strong man, Shaun." Danse said. "I know that he's hurting, but he's a strong man." He looked down towards the Castle grounds. "I think that Curie needs your help with something."

"I know, I know. She needs someone to help her put together some stimpaks." Shaun said. "I think I'm gonna help her." He started to walk away, and then turned towards Danse. "When I get older, I'm gonna make sure that the Commonwealth is safe and healthy. Maybe I'll find a cure for radiation!" He walked off, his mind already thinking about the future. About optimism.

Which left Danse the uneviable task of briefing the General.

…

Danse knew that he was in for trouble when he opened the door to the General's private quarters and saw the empty bottle of whiskey lying on the ground. He looked over at the desk, and saw Nate sitting them. In one hand was another bottle of whiskey.

In the other was that .44 Magnum.

"Nate…" Danse said, trying to figure out what the hell was going on while still keeping himself calm. "Do you know you have your magnum out?"

The General blinked once, as if acknowledging the fact that Danse was now in the room. He looked over at the pistol, and seemed confused.

"Huh. Didn't mean to get that out."

He gently set it down on the desk. He then took another swig – uncomfortably long – from the bottle in his hand.

"You've had enough, Nate." Danse said.

Nate looked at him.

"He was the first person I met in the Commonwealth." Nate said. "Before I met you, Cait, Piper, Strong, Deacon, the others…I met Preston. He helped me get to Sanctuary. Helped me get to Diamond City. Where I met Piper. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be here. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have met her-met all of you. He's the reason that I'm sitting here at this desk." He paused for a moment. "Why the fuck is he dead, Danse?"

Danse stayed silent. He didn't have an answer that wasn't inappropriately factual, an empty platitude, or offensively cold-hearted. So Nate started to speak again.

"He was the bravest, truest, and sturdiest soldier I ever fought with." Nate said, slowly getting up from his desk. "And I've fought in two wars, Danse. Both before and after your lifetime. None of them held a candle to his reliability. You know how many times out there in the wastes that he got knocked down to a knee, only to get back up? I…I thought I was gonna hear that he was gonna get back up. He always got back up. He always _gets_ back up…why couldn't he get back up?"

"Nate, we need to talk about retaliation."

"Retaliation?" Nate asked, narrowing his eyes. "Oh, let's definitely talk about _retaliation_." He walked close to Danse, and lowered his voice. "How's this for retaliation? I'm going to blow them off the face of the earth with the fury of God's own _thunder._ "

"You'll exhaust our artillery-"

" **FUCK** our artillery!" Nate bellowed, throwing the bottle at the wall. It shattered, leaving a residue of half-consumed liquor. "I don't want them to surrender, I want them to _howl!_ I want every last one of those rabid eyed, slobbering-mouthed Quincy Boys to get on their hands and knees and pray to whatever god they pretend to believe in that he might spare them…and then _gut them all!_ " He was redder than a tomato. "I don't want them beaten, I want them _dead!_ "

SLAP.

It was the bravest and, perhaps, stupidest thing Danse had ever done in his life. But in his time in the military, he knew the difference between a man grieving for a lost friend and a man who was about to do something stupid for the sake of vengeance. In the brotherhood, there was one prescribed way to get those people off their train of grief and sorrow and vengeance.

A hard backhand across the cheek usually did the trick.

Nate rubbed his jaw. The room seemed impossibly silent. He looked Danse in the eye, a stunned expression on his face. Realizing that the next words out of his mouth would either save or damn him, Danse began.

"I've fought in a lot of battles, sir. I've seen more men and women die than I will ever care to admit. And you and I both know that there is a fine line between sorrow for a lost friend, and irrationality taking over."

"Irrationality?" Nate practically whispered. "They killed him. They killed him and they didn't even do it like men. They killed him. Like a bunch of cowards."

"I wish you'd stop saying 'him,' sir."

Danse's response got Nate to, seemingly, sober up.

"I beg your pardon?" He asked. Danse stood his ground.

"I said, I wish you'd stop saying 'him,' sir. Because you and I both know that Preston Garvey, brave man that he was, is _not_ the only person who was killed in a manner that reveals the Quincy Boys to be nothing more than cowardly, rabid animals. Need I remind you of the attack on the Slog? MacCready and Rook are holding onto Salem with both hands to keep the survivors safe from the Quincy excursion. The Quincy Boys tried to assassinate the mayor of Goodneighbor. They have tried to force fear to dictate the election of Diamond City's mayor. They have dragged innocents out of their houses and slaughtered them like Brahmin. Preston Garvey was killed in a cowardly and seemingly-random way. But he is _not_ the only casualty of this war. And if you go on thinking that he is, you make it all the easier for whomever is in charge of the Quincy Boys to play you like a damned fiddle."

Nate stayed silent. Danse continued.

"At this point, Nate, we have to stop thinking that this is a war on the Commonwealth. At least, that it is _only_ a war on the Commonwealth. This might be a war on _you._ And forgive my impertinence, sir, but I believe that the Quincy leadership is gambling not necessarily on winning tactical battles on their own brilliance, but rather into baiting you into making a stupid mistake that we cannot recover from. Because we cannot afford any missteps against them. Our forces are stretched too thin as it is. And you are, quite frankly, overwhelmed. They're going to use Preston's death as a gauging mechanism. They're going to see what you do, and they're hoping…they're _begging_ that you use a full-frontal assault as a means to break them. Because that's the only fight that they can win, even if you don't lose on the battlefield. Because their numbers are near innumerable. We can't beat them in a war of attrition." He looked Nate in the eye. "What is the one linkage that we have noticed in every Quincy Boy that we have captured, in every plan and piece of intel that we have heard about their cause?"

Nate looked at Danse's lapel, but his eyes had lost that faraway stare. He was thinking again.

"They're…fanatical. Devoted to their leader with a near-religious zeal. Even the leaders of attacks speak of their leader with that kind of tone. And we're talking disparate groups like raiders and bandits and mercs that are all putting aside their differences because they buy into this message…it's almost like a cult."

"How do you break a cult, sir?" Danse asked.

"You…you have to remove the legitimacy of the leader." Nate said. "You have to make him or her fallible, and the flock will leave. Which makes their number…"

"…Smaller, sir." Danse said.

"We have to break the Man in Black, whomever the hell that is." Nate said. "We have to make him…a man. Not an ideal. Not a figurehead. Make him mortal. Make him…fallible." Nate smirked. "He's trying to break me, huh? Well, let's break him first."

"Excellent strategy, sir." Danse said. "And…sorry about the slap."

"I needed it."

"Of course, sir."

"Though you're still filing all of my paperwork for the next week at _least_ for that."

"I have no objections to that punishment, sir."

"Stop calling me sir. I'm not mad at you anymore. You can call me Nate again."

"Understood, Nate."

They stood there in silence for a moment. And then Danse cleared his throat.

"So if we're going to get to the Man in Black, we need to get more information on him. But our spy networks are…not optimal for this sort of fighting."

"Our spies are not, no." Nate said, walking over to his desk. "But, then again, we are not the only spy network in the Commonwealth…"

He reached into his desk for what looked like a walkie-talkie. He punched a few keys into it.

"They're gonna burn for what they did to Preston, the fuckers." Nate growled. But then he looked at Danse. "But they'll never see it coming." He suddenly reacted as though someone was on the line.

"Clearance code Falco-Radium-Ergo-Ergo-Delta-Omega-Meta." He paused. "Codename: Fixer." He paused again. And then he spoke.

"Des? This is Fixer. I…need your help."


	9. Stale Beer Trumps Martinis

A/N: I own nothing except the laptop upon which I wrote this story.

When the light turned on, she hadn't been looking at it directly. At first, she'd dismissed it as an illusion. A trick of the mind, brought forth by too little sleep and far too much work. She was busy reading the most recent cable from a field agent. Drummer Boy hadn't really put a lot of faith in this one, but she liked the nature of the reports: timely, consistent, and concise. A little bit too circular on code, but it was readable and wouldn't be broken by anyone that was looking for something to be broken. It hadn't been a very _exciting_ report, but it was a good report nonetheless.

That was when the light on the radio turned on.

Desdemona turned slightly at her desk, tilting her swivel chair and leaning back as she heard a creak. It was an incredibly difficult job, setting up that two-way radio transceiver. According to some of the more knowledgeable people in her organization, this was the closest thing to a two-way radio or even a telephone from the old world. It wasn't tappable (to her knowledge), and it had been set up on the nascent stages of what she had hoped would be a fruitful partnership between individuals that had instead dramatically flamed out. But now the light was on next to the radio receiver, and that meant one thing and one thing only.

Someone wanted to speak to her. And _only_ her.

She looked over towards Glory, who was watching her intently. No doubt Glory had seen the light come on the receiver. Glory knew who was on the other line. With a single glance, she knew that Desdemona needed privacy.

"Hey, get to observation positions!" Glory barked to the few people that were in the command post of the Railroad. "Boss needs a priority-one call."

The few technicians that weren't out of earshot immediately scattered into the dark like cockroaches caught by the light. The cavernous catacombs of the Railroad headquarters made it easy for sounds to echo. If Desdemona was going to talk, she'd need to keep her voice down. As soon as everyone was clear and Glory gave a thumbs up, Desdemona picked up the receiver and pressed down on the button. The voice crackled in.

" _Clearance code Falco-Radium-Ergo-Ergo-Delta-Omega-Meta._ "

"Codename verification?" Desdemona asked, but she really didn't have to. She knew that voice.

" _Codename: Fixer_."

"…Confirmed." Desdemona said after a moment.

" _Des, this is Fixer. I…need your help_."

"It's been a while." She said. She felt herself tensing up a little bit. It had been months since she had spoken to the leader of the Minutemen and, by all accounts, the leader of the free Commonwealth. Her organization still did a few unofficial jobs for the Minutemen and the general good of the Commonwealth, but she had not personally spoken to Fixer since…well, since the plot against the Brotherhood had ended poorly. She could still hear how his angered yells had echoed off of the catacomb walls.

" _Indeed it has._ "

"I'm guessing that this must be serious, if you're calling me directly instead of using a liason." Desdemona said.

" _It's about as serious as it can get."_ Fixer replied. " _I'm betting that you've already heard the news._ "

"I'm reading the report on my desk right now." Desdemona said. "Garvey got killed?"

" _I need to close the leaks in my ranks._ " The General said with a hint of frustration. _"The fact that you are a step ahead of me is a thought that is going to fester._ "

"With respect, Nathan, I'm in charge of a fucking intelligence agency." Desdemona said. "If I wasn't at least a step ahead of every other organized power in the Commonwealth, I'd be pretty useless. And you wouldn't be calling me."

" _You have a point._ "

"You know this is the longest extended conversation we've had since the last time."

" _…I know._ "

"You threatened to burn the Railroad to the ground, if I recall correctly."

" _Your plan hinged on bombing a location that had fucking kids on board. You're lucky I didn't attack you right then and there, and you don't have the right to play moral politics on that point. You were_ _ **wrong**_ _, Dez, and I will never compromise on that point._ "

Which is why you are in _charge_ of the Commonwealth, and I know every _secret_ in the Commonwealth, Desdemona thought to herself.

"So are we calling to hash things out over coffee and donuts? Or is this something serious?"

" _I literally would not turn to anyone else except you._ "

Desdemona leaned forward in her chair.

"You had my curiosity, Fixer. Now you have my attention."

…

Deacon looked around at the war room table. So far, it looked like every key field agent in the Railroad had been called to this meeting. Desdemona was standing at the head of the table, which held a map of the Commonwealth stretched across it, and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Rarely did Desdemona call together all of the field agents at one time; it was usually bad form. But this meant that things were serious.

"Hope things are going well, ladies and gentlemen." Desdemona said.

"Well, I ran out of Nuka a few days ago and I haven't had a shower in a few days." Deacon said. "Other than that I'm peachy. Hell, I could be leader of the Commonwealth."

A round of chuckles. Desdemona narrowed her eyes.

"Not in the mood for jokes right now, Deacon."

"Then what the hell do you keep me around for, boss?" Deacon asked, a playful grin on his face.

"Bad comic timing." Glory replied.

Desdemona just glared at them both, and their snarking ceased. She really wasn't in the mood.

"Report from Diamond City?"

"Election is proceeding as predicted." The Railroad agent said. "Pitt is projected to win in a landslide, though not from a lack of effort from his opponent Ann Codman. She represents the more patrician views of the city, while Pitt holds the plebian vote: put more simply, he's going to carry the election but the rich of the city don't really trust him all that much. Reports of fake news being filtered through the election have been discredited: the _Publick_ is unimpeachable when it comes to journalistic accuracy. Though Miss Wright is currently on the front lines in Jamaica Plains, her associate editor/municipal reporter Jethro and her younger sister Nat run the paper supremely efficiently."

"So nothing to worry about in Diamond City, got it." Desdemona said. "See if you can get a bug in that snooty bar that the haves of Diamond City frequent. Might be good to know what they're thinking. Pitt's a good man, wouldn't want him to be kneecapped by special interests." She tapped her chin in thought. "Anything else from Diamond City that's of note?"

"There's a city council election that runs on the same day as the Mayoral Election." The agent said. "So far, it's the usual hucksters running for a spot. Except for one: Horatio Zwicky is apparently considering running for office."

"The teacher?" Deacon asked. "What about his other job?"

"Scuttlebutt is that his wife-"

"The robot?" One of the other agents asked, drawing him a glare from Glory.

"His _wife_ is apparently taking on the majority of the teaching at the schoolhouse, and encouraging him to practice what he preaches regarding civics in the city. He wrote an op-ed in the _Publick_ critiquing a motion to put a curfew in Diamond City, arguing that it was a violation of the citizens' civil liberties." The Diamond City agent said.

"And?" Desdemona asked.

"It got through. Pitt ordered the committee to drop the matter, and they did. It might be useful to have someone like Horatio Zwicky in a position of power, but I doubt he would like the Railroad all that much, were he to learn of our existence."

"I'm going to call it: Horatio Zwicky will mayor of Diamond City immediately after Pitt." Desdemona said. "The man keeps trying to stay in the shadows, but he always succeeds in impressing people despite his insistence on remaining low-key. Keep an eye on him, but absolutely no intrusions and do _not_ make a move to threaten or tail him." She looked at the Diamond City agent. "And whatever you do, do _not_ let anyone know of his wife's correspondence with Dr. Amari."

The agent nodded, and Desdemona turned towards another agent, who was listlessly picking someone out of his nails with a pocket knife.

"What's the situation in Goodneighbor?" She asked.

"Basically a giant extended middle finger towards Quincy, after the attempted assassination attempt on Mayor Hancock." The agent said. "You were right to suspect that the Quincy Boys were plotting something against him, and I managed to get the message to Ms. Farenheit that he'd better start carrying a weapon or expect to be attacked while out on the street. I…didn't expect him to be so blasé about being attacked, though. He's making a running joke out of it."

"How so?" Desdemona asked.

"Apparently, the new unofficial city motto of Goodneighbor is 'Fuck Quincy, I'm a Good Neighbor!' It's very popular for regulars at the Third Rail to cheer out in between rounds."

"That sounds like Hancock's influence, all right." Desdemona said. "What about the ghoul that's his right hand man, Zinn?"

"Shifty motherfucker." The Goodneighbor agent said. "Sticks to the shadows, and writes all of Hancock's speeches. I think he's thinking about pressing Hancock to create some sort of department in the local government, but Hancock is a little bit iffy on it: he's very laissez-faire, after all, and Zinn's proposed department would be a test of that."

"What is it?" Desdemona asked.

"Wants to establish a lawman program to break the mob traces in the city. Don't know if the old mob bosses in the city will like seeing their boys in pinstripes getting muscled off of the streets in favor of guys in uniforms."

"Don't underestimate Zinn." Desdemona said. "In all likelihood, his 'department' of security will just be deputizing the former mob flunkies into respectable cops…allowing the mob bosses an excuse to start going legitimate. I wouldn't be surprised if Goodneighbor starts putting on a cleaner façade in the near future." She turned to another agent.

"What's the situation in Salem?"

"Tense, but they're hanging in there." The agent said. "A shitload of Quincy boys are laying siege to the city, after having burned down The Slog. A lot of displaced ghouls are hiding in there, and it's up to Rook and MacCready and a few reformed convicts and a trio of Brotherhood of Steel agents to hold the line. They're doing okay, but they're getting low on ammo."

"Why doesn't the Brotherhood of Steel help out?" Desdemona asked. "The airport is closer to Salem than us or the Castle."

"Because acting Commander Rhys is, despite his willingness to defer to the General, a stubborn racist fuck who doesn't want to risk his men saving some ghouls. He's been driving the General crazy. I intercepted some communication between Minutemen officials: apparently the General is at his wit's end trying to shake Rhys out of the airport, he likens him to a lion in a cage."

"Then start rattling the cage." Desdemona said. "You have full permission to draw the Brotherhood out of the airport, and perhaps conveniently lead them up to Salem to get them to lend a hand."

"Isn't that a bit underhanded, ma'am?" The agent asked. "We'd be gambling not only Brotherhood lives, but also on the idea that Rhys wouldn't smell the bait."

"The reason why Rhys is hiding in the airport is because he's not as brilliant as Arthur Maxson, and he knows it. You rustle his jimmies enough, and Rhys will come roaring out. We might get him to unintentionally bumble himself into a heroic reputation and a promotion to Paladin if we pull this off right. Operation _Kansas City Shuffle_ is a go. You may proceed." The agent nodded, and left the table to begin assembling a task force.

That left a few other people at the table, and Deacon noticed that the people remaining were the kinds of people that were assigned to detail someone _else's_ operation. Which meant, by process of elimination, that Desdemona had a job for him.

"What have you got for me, Dez?" Deacon asked.

"You're just assuming that I have a job for you, of all people?" Desdemona asked.

"Process of elimination, boss." Deacon said. He looked over at the others. "No offense, guys, but let's be honest here. I'm the best we've got. You're all good, but you're a little wet behind the ears. Hell, have any of you figured out my latest logic puzzle?"

A few embarrassed looks and some shuffling feet. Deacon raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Thought so." He looked over at Desdemona. "So? What is it?"

"We're going into Quincy. We need to find out who this Man in Black is."

There was another silence.

"I'm sorry, I must not have heard you correctly." Deacon said. "Because it _sounded_ like you said we're gonna crack the Man in Black."

"That's exactly what I said." Desdemona said. "Is there a problem?"

"Problem? Nah, there's no problem." Deacon said. "Except for the little fact that Mr. Man in Black is the single most uncrackable nut in the bunch. You know how long I've been trying to get a feeler into the inner workings of Quincy in my spare time, in addition to my other projects?"

"I'm aware." Desdemona said. "I'm also aware that you're doing it in your _spare_ time, not with the fullness of your attention and effort. I'm pulling you from your other projects and putting you on this one. You're in charge."

"Uh, I've been working those cases for months, Dez, who's gonna take them?"

"I will." Desdemona said. She placed a hand on her hip and sighed as he pouted. "Deacon, be real. Those were minor-league deals anyway. You were taking them because you didn't want us to think that you were obsessed with the Man in Black, and that that was the only case you were working. The other stuff? I could do in my sleep, so I'll finish them. This is your chance to chase your white whale. This is an endorsement to fully commit to figuring the guy out."

Deacon nodded, his trademark wit silent for the moment. It was true, even to those that worked in Tinker Tom's department or tried to stay up to date with P.A.M.'s readings. Deacon was obsessed about the Man in Black. It was clear that he was still annoyed with the ease that the Quincy Boys had slipped under the radar months ago, and that no one seemed to know who their enemy was. Deacon figured anyone and everyone out. Except for this one.

And judging by the fact that his desk stayed alight into the wee hours of the morning long after the others would call it a night, it was clear that it was eating at him.

"Everyone else at this table is to work with you, no strings attached." Desdemona said. "Whatever resources you need, we'll provide."

"What's my endgame?"

"We need to get a feeler into Quincy. We need to know who the Man in Black is, and why he seems to carry this cult-like power over the Quincy Boys."

"And from there…what?" Deacon asked. "I've never been good at cracking religiousity, Dez. That time I impersonated a Church of Atom clergyman notwithstanding."

"It's desperation, really. Because the Man in Black seems to know how to get directly under everyone's skin. He's driving the General up a wall, he's got William Pitt sweating bullets, and he seems to be spooking Arthur Maxson from coming back to the Commonwealth. It's uncanny."

"Not to be boring as hell, but maybe it's because he's a complete megalomaniac?" Deacon offered. "Megalomania knows how to deconstruct megalomania, Dez."

"…Are you suggesting that the General and Mayor Pitt are megalomaniacs?" One of the agents asked.

"I mean, not in a _bad_ way, but there's definitely a sense of ego involved in thinking that you can lead everyone in a large area. There's a reason why those two are so tightly wound, and why Hancock is basically partying every night. He's not scared."

"He's also high every day, sir." The agent replied.

"Touche." Deacon admitted.

"We're getting off topic here." Desdemona said. "I know that this seems like an impossible assignment, but there's no one I'd rather assign to this detail than you, Deacon. There's no one that could possibly pull it off, as scary as that seems. This would be the biggest case of your career, of your life, even."

"Well, geez, Dez, that sounds like a good case of megalomania yourself." Deacon said. "Why is everyone so damn serious about everything?"

"That seems to be the effect war has on people." Desdemona said. She raised an eyebrow. "Now, if we're done sparring over philosophical observation, can you tell me who or what you've learned about regarding Quincy?"

"Not much." Deacon admitted. "The Man in Black sits at the top. He's definitely in charge of everything. He's also got a _lot_ of lieutenants right under him. There's the big guy who has the painted-face guys. There's some creepy as shit lady who wears more metal than a securitron. And then there are the Black siblings."

"The Black siblings?"

"Mags and William Black." Deacon said. "You have _no idea_ how hard it was for me to figure out those names."

"Enlighten me." Desdemona said.

"Well, I found some apparel off of a dead Quincy that looked like…Nuka World or something like that. It was a fake plastic bottlecap. So I start asking around and digging through terminals. Hell, I even snuck into the library to find out. Turns out there's this old city or thing called Nuka-World. From there, I started to sneak around the upper levels of Diamond City, because I remembered seeing an old sign on The Wall that mentioned a Nuka-World. In one of the mayor's old terminal files there's some sort of email exchange between the old mayor and some family members about a-"

"Wait. You _hacked the mayor's emails?_ " One agent interrupted. "How the hell did you pull that off?"

"It wasn't too hard." Deacon said. "They didn't really protect their server that well. And I might have charmed the secretary at the time."

"Don't need the details." Desdemona said. "Continue."

"So I find this email exchange from some upper-crust complaining that the mayor can't use the runaway of his kids out west to Nuka-World as blackmail, even if they formed a gang. Really, the level of self-awareness for rich people must be negative. I seriously think that the more money you have, the less likely you are to recognize just how illegal as shit some of the things you do or talk about actually are. Long story short, there's a brother and sister that were a part of the Diamond City upper crust. Then they ran away. Formed a gang called the Operators. Work for whomever pays them the most. Had to burn through a few of my underworld contacts to get that piece of info. But from there I figured out there is a gang in Quincy called the 'Operators,' and I gotta assume that Mags and William Black are the ones in charge of the outfit."

"You keep speaking like there's some hope there." An agent said.

"Only on a conditional thing." Deacon said. "Mags is lethal as hell and all, but secretly wants someone that appreciates her genius and all that. I bet the Man in Black uses that. William? He's loyal, I suppose, but stupid as a bloatfly. Also…tends to be a man of vice. And runs his mouth when he's drunk."

"This is an awful lot of material you've gathered. How?" The first agent asked. Deacon shrugged.

"I've been in Quincy. I was pretending to be a strung-out junkie. A lot of things you'll hear when people think you're nobody. Now, you all asked me if I had anything on the Man in Black. I don't. He keeps to himself. But the men at the ground talk about the lieutenants. That might be our way in."

"How so?" Glory asked, having joined the conversation. Deacon grinned.

"William Black is only loyal when he's sober. But put some chems in him and he's got a bit of a loose lip. And he gets frustrated easily…" He said.

"I like where this is going…" Desdemona said.

"It gets better." Deacon said. "He's also a fan of women. Particularly women that look like they can kick his ass…"

Everyone turned and looked over.

"Oh, _fuck you guys._ "

…

He was tired and pissed and angry. It was a rainy day, the type where you aren't sure if it's clean or rad-infested. The wretches were still out in the street, which meant that it wasn't full-on radiated. But it was still frustrating.

He tripped over something.

"Fuck!"

He looked over at what he'd stumbled over. In his haze, he saw that it was some miserable puke in a pullover and a ratty blanket. The man held up his arms in a defensive posture.

William Black shot him between the eyes. He should have known better than to get in the way of a lieutenant of the Man in Black.

He'd shot himself up with his usual amount of chems, but it wasn't doing it for some reason. He thought about drinking, but Mags got pissed whenever he took liquor from their cabinets, and he was out of Stout. So if drugs and alcohol weren't gonna do it, that left only one option.

He staggered over towards Quincy's impromptu red-light district. There were a few women (and some men) out in the street, coyly waving towards anyone that was interested. But they weren't the real treats. Those were the ones that were inside, the ones that were pretty enough to not have to draw people in from the outside. They were also the ones that were safe from the streets, after all.

He brushed past the usual fare, and opened the door to the club. He staggered past the few Quincy boys that were lucky enough to have the money to spend on these sorts of pleasures, and slapped the bar counter.

"Keeper! Gimme something good."

The bartender/owner of the place was a pudgy looking fellow, and had sweat under his arms in the exactly the most disgusting way. Not that William Black cared. He was in charge, and this fatso was gonna get him what he wanted.

"Male or female." The bartender asked.

"I only do women." William snarled. "Gimme something good."

"Good or…new?" The bartender asked.

At this, William raised an eyebrow.

"You never advertised anyone new before, Jeb."

"She's new. Just came in." Jeb said. He looked shifty. "Can give her to ya…for free."

"She good looking or she loaded with stuff?" William asked. "Free don't mean good."

"Wanna bet, babe?"

He felt a hand on his shoulder, soft and warm, and turned around.

She had caramel-brown skin, platinum white hair that was shaved off to the side, and the kind of eyes that you could get lost in. She also looked big and confident. She was wearing a corset and not much else. She winked at him.

"Yeah, I'll take her." William said.

…

"Gotta say," William said as he sat in the chair, "I've never had someone as pretty as you."

They were in a hotel room that had been reappropriated into a VIP room of sorts. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd been in here. She was shimmying out of her shorts, and she looked over at him and smirked.

"Please. I bet you say that about every lady you're with."

"I'm serious." William said. He could feel the drugs kicking in, making him feel like he was floating. It made things more "exciting," in his humble experience. "You look better than most of the girls. You're…fuller. Not so skinny and shit."

The escort lady smiled.

"I'm not like most girls." She said, taking a seat on his lap and running a finger under his chin. "So, tell me big guy, you someone important? I hear you come here a lot."

"Yeah, I'm pretty important." William said. "I run the Operators."

"Oooh, the Operators." The lady purred, drawing a figure eight along his chin line with her index finger. "That's a nasty bunch. But I thought that Mags Black was in charge of the whole thing?"

"Don't believe it." William snorted. "Sis thinks she's so smart, but without me she'd have nothing."

"You the one that gets the job done?" The escort asked, reclining so that her back was resting on his chest. She rested her head in the crook of his shoulder and neck.

"Damn right…babe." He said, trying to stay focused on the conversation and not the other things that were running through his mind.

"So if you're the one that gets the job done, then how come you haven't, like, taken over?"

"Cuz I gotta wait for a good moment." William said. "I never get a chance to show my worth, mostly because Sis is always taking the credit for what I'm doing." He growled. "I'm smarter than they all think."

"Mmm, I bet you are." The escort said. She started to rock her hips back and forth a little bit. William had to resist the urge not to start drooling. "Tell me, sweetie, what would happen if your sister were to just…disappear?"

"Like, dead?" William asked. "Uh, I dunno. I mean I wouldn't _want_ that to happen, but if it did…"

"The world looks out for Big Willy Black?" The woman asked, now absolutely grinding up on him. "I bet you could take over the Operators and show the Man in Black who's boss, right?"

"Damn right." William said, mere seconds away from carrying her over to the bed. Rare was it that he found a woman that really _got_ him. "I could run the Operators, I could run the Dogs, I could run the Disciples, hell I could run the damn city. I could take that damned Man in Black. Fuckin' elitist, drinkin' his wine and shit and reading books over in the Stone Library. I'd not shed a tear if he was dead. Hell, maybe I'd kill him and have you at my side. What do you think?"

"What do I think?" The woman asked. She'd turned around, and was now facing him with her lips about an inch from his. She pressed her forehead to his.

"I think you're fucking busted."

Before he could react, William Black knew he'd been had.

The pistol was pressed up underneath his chin, and the broad was pushing it to the point where he was leaning back in the chair. How she'd managed to get it out and before he'd seen it was a mystery. But there was no denying that the escort was armed and dangerous. And there was no more sultry in her eyes; just hate.

Despite the situation, William grinned.

"What, you think you can just shoot me? You'd never make it past the front door, you dumb bitch. Jeb and the boys would cut you up."

"I mean, he _would_ if he was working today."

The other voice seemed to come from out of the shadows. William looked over to see a pudgy-looking man that looked very much like Jeb but clearly wasn't step forward. "You were so lit that for a moment I thought you'd drunkenly ask me about this fake beer gut I'm wearing. It's a fucking pillow, for Christ's sake."

Another pair of men dressed in rags and with their faces obscured by masks stepped forward from the shadows. One of them had been hiding in the closet. The other was literally behind the curtain.

"WHO ARE YOU-"

"Say another word and you get one in your lap." The lady hissed, redirecting the gun and forcibly pressing it into a sensitive spot that made William whimper in anticipated pain. "So why don't you use your inside voice, please?"

"What the lady said." The fake-Jeb said. "I guess you never paid attention in Mr. Zwicky's classroom, eh Billy? Can I call you Billy? What about Wills? Wilbur?" Fake-Jeb shrugged. "Whatever. What I should really call you is 'in the shit.'" He held his hand up to his eyes. "Up to here."

"What are you fucking talking abou-"

Fake-Jeb held up a recording tape.

"I've got undoctored audio of you openly conspiring to either not help or maybe even kill your sister for control of the Operators. And, for the piece de resistance, I've got you boasting that you could kill the Man in Black himself. What do you think we give this as a birthday present to the guy himself. Does the Man in Black laugh? I wonder. Think he'd find this a pretty funny joke?"

William was now melting under the sweat that was pouring down his face. His stomach was in knots.

"No…please…" He whispered. "He'll _kill me_!"

"I bet that he wouldn't stop at that." Fake-Jeb said. "Might desecrate your corpse, cut your man stuff off, the usual nasty raider shit." He shrugged. "I mean, it doesn't matter to us. We're not the idiot who agreed to take the brand-new hooker that he's never seen before, and didn't vet with the barkeep beforehand. I mean, no offense, Free Willy, but you are _shit_ at this espionage thing."

"What do you want?" William asked. Fake-Jeb tapped his chin in fake thought.

"What do we _want_? A lot of things. I want some of this 'pizza' that I hear so much about, and I think that I'd love to have the world not be an irradiated mess. I think that she would love a bath to get your ick off of her, and the two boys back there want some brain bleach about what they had to see as they were waiting in here for you two to come on upstairs. But what we want from _you_ …"

Fake-Jeb leaned in close, and dangled the tape in front of William's face.

"We'll be in touch with what we want from you. And you will do whatever we want to the letter. Otherwise, Mr. Man in Black gets to hear your dirty talk on this tape. And I gotta say, plotting to overthrow a local government? Pretty damned kinky." He jammed a needle in William's arm, and pressed the plunger. "Nighty-night."

William Black was out cold in seconds.

As soon as he was safely out, they broke character.

"Fucking fuck this fucking job that fucking… _fuck!_ " Glory snarled, hastily putting her clothes back on. Deacon chuckled, and removed his disguise.

"Well, that certainly illustrates the diversity of the word, dear."

"You _so_ owe me." Glory snapped, putting her clothes back on and tightening her belt reflexively. "He _stinks_ of sleaze."

"Yeah, well I'll buy your drinks for the next month or so as payback." Deacon said. "Besides, look on the bright side."

He gestured to the snoring William Black.

"We've got someone to lean on."


	10. Way Down We Go

A/N: I own nothing except the laptop upon which I wrote this story.

They were sitting in the middle of a dilapidated house on the far edge of the city. In the distance, they could hear the sounds of debauchery and violence that only Quincy seemed capable of. Even the hardiest of their agents were glancing fretfully out the window, peeking through the closed blinds as if expecting a contingent of Quincy Boys to come marching through the streets at any given moment. They were not on solid ground, they were barely above water, to be quite honest. But they were somewhere that they had not been mere months before: they had a foothold in Quincy.

Deacon was absently flicking his cigarette lighter on and off, though he wasn't planning to light it any time soon. Part of what made Deacon so mysterious to the newer Railroad agents (and so infuriating to his contemporaries like Glory) was his seeming inability to put on any air of seriousness: he had a devil-may-care attitude about everything, and seemed unable to remark on anything without making a pithy joke. More than once Glory had thrown a coffee cup at his head because he had worded his intelligence briefing in the form of iambic pentameter, or written his opinion on a case in limerick form. He didn't care about decorum, and he didn't really seem to take anything seriously.

And yet, all the same, he was the best that they had. So his idiosyncrasies were tolerated.

"Are you gonna light that thing or what?" One of the more jumpy Railroad agents asked.

"Patience, kiddo." Deacon said. "Sometimes you need something to calm a fidget, even if it isn't an actual light. I might light this, I might not. But in the end, I'll decide."

"That makes absolutely no sense and I feel kind of angry now that I've listened to it." The agent admitted.

"This your first stake-out with Deacon?" Glory asked, raising an eyebrow. "Get used to it."

"You act like my attitude is a bad thing." Deacon said. "I view it as a way to stay sane, as we stand literally on the doorstep of hell itself. It's a wonder that they haven't filled this house with squatters yet."

"Or the Minutemen haven't bombed it yet." One of the other agents said. He peeked back out the window. "What do you think? Are we due for another round of bombardment?"

"Nah, unlikely." Deacon said. "Intelligence suggests that the Minutemen are playing a waiting game now. They're waiting for someone within the agency to come up with a bold stroke or two."

"Not a very high opinion of things, boss." One of the other agents said. He was a young man, with cheeks that still carried traces of baby fat. Deacon shrugged.

"Look, I've spent more time in deep cover in the Minutemen than you can even imagine. They've got some creative minds at the top…but their field operations were limited to the General and Garvey. Danse was always a better policy wonk than a field leader. And Shaw? She's stuck in her old ways, and if she were to take full command there'd be a bloodbath. Nah, the truth is that the only way the Minutemen are going to win this war is if they can get some ingenuity from their little units…and I don't see that happening."

"That's where we come in, isn't it?" Glory asked.

"Damn right." Deacon said. "We're gonna deliver the Man in Black on a silver platter to the General, and from there maybe he can end this damned war. I mean, my god: I'm actually – and this might come as a shock – getting _sick_ of the Commonwealth tearing itself apart. Fuck me, right?"

The others didn't say anything, but they were not about to disagree with him. Deacon finally lit his cigarette, and looked around.

"I'm betting our horndog is waking up from his forcible naptime." Deacon said. He started to mess up his hair, and put on layers of foul-smelling, ratty and torn clothing. "Might be time to see where he leads us. You guys got the wire set?"

Glory pressed a small receive on Deacon's chest, and then tapped into her headset.

"Say something." She said.

"Something."

"Well, it's fuzzy, but it's audible." Glory said after a moment. She turned to the other two agents, who were lugging the field equipment and taping device into the house. "Get that set up properly and away from the windows. We're gonna be listening in to Deacon's private conversations, and maybe the things that we hear from a select few others. Get to it."

In the old days, they'd heard stories that intelligence agencies had done things like this: tapping and listening in. It was apparently a lot easier than this, but then again…when you're building things in the aftermath of nuclear Armageddon, baby steps were better than no steps whatsoever.

…

Nate looked out over the expanse of the Commonwealth, stretching his eyes as far as he could. In the hazy distance, he could see the discordant architecture of Quincy. He thought of the decay and chaos that must dominate that place, and privately wondered if he had done the right thing: no one had ever gotten inside the city limits from the Minutemen. Was it really the right decision to contract this out to the Railroad? Was he dooming them to failure? But…what if they succeeded? What precedent would that set? It was an organization that had deliberately been left out of the Commonwealth Accords, and he was essentially giving it Carte blanch to gather intelligence on the Quincy Boys. That was fine and good during a war…but what would happen afterwards? If there was an afterwards? Would they be expected to stop using the information and equipment?

He turned his shoulder, and looked off to the north. He'd heard nothing but static reports from Salem. Apparently the Quincy Boys hadn't broken through the defenses of the few men that were unfortunate enough to be in their path. He debated sending ammunition there, but he had no idea whether or not it was going to get to Salem safely. If the Brotherhood of Steel defenders in the Boston Airport would only get off their _asses_ -

He stopped himself. He knew that if he was going to win this war, he could not alienate the only organization that might have greater technology than his own (or whatever nefarious things that the Quincy Insurgency possessed). Knight Rhys was stubborn and Nate suspected would never forgive him for sparing Danse, but he was also a dedicated soldier. He was not about to endanger his men if he absolutely did not have to. But right now, it seemed as though the Brotherhood was content to sit in the Airport, with no discernable action.

He felt movement next to him. He looked over, and saw that Danse had joined him on the battlement. They both stood there in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Danse was quietly smoking his pipe, but by his body language did not seem like he was in a particular hurry to say anything. Nate broke the silence.

"What are we doing, Danse?"

"Fighting a war, Nate." Danse replied. He said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Nate snorted, trying not to smile.

"Is that it? Feels like we're just careening through the darkness, with people periodically dying along the way." He paused. "Is this what my superiors felt like in the Alaska battles? Were they just as fucking confused as I am now?"

Danse said nothing. He'd learned long ago that asking for context of the many battles the General alluded to in his past life was a lost cause; there was simply too much to absorb and not enough time. So he simply let the man speak. Usually, Nate could talk his own way out of a conundrum. But this time Danse felt the need to offer something.

"I imagine that any general of an armed force would feel the same way, Nate." He said. "After all, it's different when you're not the one in the trenches. You're left to rely on the work of others, instead of your own."

"But we were so damned _good_ at it, you know?" Nate said, turning towards Danse. "Whenever the two of us, or anyone else in our group, got into the thick of it…we carved people up. We basically created the damned Commonwealth. And the _second_ I step away…"

"You let others carry the torch." Danse finished for him. "Attempting to balance the weight of the world on your shoulders is foolish, Nate. Especially when you have people who are willing to share the load. Look around us. This is not an easy fight, and most people are hunkered down in their settlements…but we still get trickles of recruits from the frightened people. They may be scared, but they _believe_ in you. They believe in this cause. That's worth it enough to keep going."

Nate stayed quiet. He looked over at Danse.

"I suppose you're right." He raised an eyebrow. "Think I should get me one of those?"

"What, a pipe?" Danse replied. He furrowed his brow. "Don't. It's a filthy habit. And you'd set a bad example for Shaun."

"What, and you don't?"

"I'm supposedly the closest thing that boy has to an uncle." Danse said. "I'm allowed to be a corrupting influence." He paused. "Or at least that's what they tell me that uncles do."

Nate laughed. It might have been the first time he'd laughed in about a week.

"You are simply unbelievable, Danse." He said.

"I believe it." Danse said. "Technically, I'm not really here. I'm just a creation." He looked at Nate, and winked.

"Wait, aren't I supposed to be the one helping you through an existential crisis?" Nate asked.

"Well, friends look out for one another. At least, that's what I'm told."

"Okay, now I know you're being intentionally dense."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

…

He was sweating a little bit, but not nearly as bad as he had been hours earlier. That was when two or three of the wounded ghouls all seemed to go into shock at the same time. He'd needed every last bit of medicine, as well as a few of the healthy ghouls, to hold them from going. He was blearily aware of the fact that he hadn't sat down in almost thirteen hours. He didn't really care. The alternative to what he was doing was to sit down and think. And thinking about what was out there utterly terrified him.

Chibs had joined a raider band when he was in his late teens, shortly after his mother died. He'd just assumed that he was gonna live out his life as one of them…until he got arrested just outside Diamond City. When he'd been in a holding cell, he'd burst into tears when one of the Minutemen interrogators told him that he was looking at the rest of his life behind bars. He'd begged for some sort of mercy. Anything but going to prison.

They'd conscripted him into the Minutemen "reserves," and had placed him and Gunny (who'd been arrested for a string of petty thefts) in Salem. He'd thought it would be a boring but somewhat honorable way to pick up the pieces.

Then the fucking Slog blows up. And now here he was, serving as an impromptu doctor for a bunch of desperate and frightened ghouls.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw that it was a ghoul, one of the older looking ones at that. The man had a mottled face, and his hair was coming out in clumps, but he had a warm smile.

"You should sit down. You've been keeping us upright for the entire day, maybe more. Let us look after our own, now. We can call you if we need you."

"But…"

"No buts." The ghoul said. "Consider it an extension of kindredship. We ghouls have to stick together, after all." He tapped Chibs on the shoulder gently, and then left him to help some of the other ghouls.

Exhausted, Chibs took a seat. He glanced out the barricaded window. He wasn't sure why the shooting had stopped, but he was aware of the fact that Rook and MacCready were still at work up in the tower. He wasn't sure where the Brotherhood boys were, and he'd sent Gunny off to another building in the district to scrounge for medical supplies. He figured that things were settling down.

Then he heard the screams.

They weren't coming from the ghouls. They were coming from outside. Not from the city, but from the outside. He allowed himself a twinge of satisfaction, assuming that the Quincy Boys were stupid enough to re-awaken the stingwings that lived in the area. He hoped that they were sucked dry.

But then he heard the roars.

Deathclaws.

" _Boy, you there?_ " He heard Rook come in over his radio. Chibs shakily picked up his radio, and called in.

"…Yeah."

" _Listen and listen good. MacCready and I count_ _ **three**_ _Deathclaws out in the Quincy ranks. They're gonna do the job for us out there…but that doesn't mean the Deathclaws are gonna be done. Brotherhood is gonna lure one of them out into the fields and torch it. MacCready and I are gonna split the head of a second. As soon as we're done with that one, then we're gonna take care of the third."_

Chibs tried not to listen to the sound of his heartbeat slamming in his chest. His superior had just told him that, for an indefinite period of time, there was going to be a Deathclaw wandering through Salem and unaccounted for. If this was a mudcrab or some sort of piddling wasteland creature, he wouldn't be nearly as freaked out as he was now. They were betting on luck against a creature that could tear his face off just as soon as look at him.

And Deathclaws were clever. They could think. They could plan. And, worst of all, they were surprisingly capable of sadism.

" _Boy? You there?_ "

"…Y-yeah." Chibs managed to sputter.

" _Listen boy, you'd better nut up and nut up quickly. You and Gunny are responsible for the lives of a whole rash of sick, tired, undefended and helpless ghouls. Don't wanna pressure you too much, but if you fuck up then that Deathclaw will kill every last one of them. Just hold tight and keep them quiet. When we clear the other two, Mac and I will peg the last Deathclaw._ " There was a pause on the other end. " _I'm counting on you, boy._ "

He turned off his link.

One of the ghouls, an older looking fellow, approached Chibs.

"Is everything okay?" He asked.

Chibs turned to look at him. He was trying to keep a straight and expressionless face, but he knew from how he felt that his face was as white as snow.

"Who's in charge of your group?" Chibs managed to ask.

"That'd be me." The ghoul said. "Truman."

"Chibs." The former raider managed to mutter. He shook the ghoul's hand. He looked around. "Look…I need your help."

"What is it?" Truman asked.

"We need to keep the panic level down, because I have a report from my bosses that there's gonna be a Deathclaw roaming the streets of Salem in an imminent, undisclosed time period." Chibs managed to say. He watched Truman's eyes widen slightly, but the ghoul managed to keep his cool.

"Okay." He said. "I can get the women and children up in the higher levels of the house. That would leave about five or six of us healthy ghouls to help you and your friend. Seven…maybe eight people? Should be enough to kill a Deathclaw."

"I don't want anyone to die." Chibs said. Truman shrugged.

"That's the risk that you take when fighting a Deathclaw. Usually someone does." Truman said. He looked over to one of the other ghouls, and made a series of hand gestures. The ghoul nodded, grabbed his shotgun, and began to quietly and quickly direct the others to get upstairs. The other healthy ghouls saw that things were getting more tense, and made moves to prepare themselves for whatever was coming.

"What can we do?" Truman asked.

"Well…Deathclaws hate fire. I think. So if we have anything flammable…let's get it ready." Chibs said. "And they aren't that agile in tight corners. So we're gonna have to get it trapped…" He pointed behind Truman. "In that corridor. That's where the front door of the house is. In all likelihood, the Deathclaw will come in from there first."

"I saw a few propane tanks in the basement." One of the other ghouls, who had been listening in, said. "I can go get them and rig them by the doorway."

"How do we get the Deathclaw in through the front door?" Truman asked. "They're not gonna fall for an obvious trap."

"Unless there's some irresistible bait." Offered one of the other ghouls. "Don't know if Deathclaws would wanna eat ghouls, though. We're pretty irradiated."

"I'll do it." Chibs said. He wiped the sweat off his brow. "I'm a little on the thicker side. I suppose it might think that I'm…I'm an easy target."

"What are you gonna do?" Truman asked.

"I could fire a shot or two at it from the front door, get it mad." Chibs offered. "And…and I then would turn around and run inside. It tries to break down the door, and then you guys light the propane tanks and someone…" He looked around. "Anyone got a good arm for a grenade or two?"

A few hands went up.

"Don't take any chances." Chibs said. "Just throw the damn things in the doorway if you need to. Spam it. And take the Deathclaw down with everything you've got. Whatever guns or explosives you've got…use them."

"Wait." Truman said, as soon as the others started to shuffle and get into position. "What if you're still within the blast range when it's time for us to ignite the gas?" Truman asked.

Chibs felt the room go silent. Everyone was looking at him. He took a gulp.

"Well…you need to take out the Deathclaw, right? Do what you need to do."

The others nodded solemnly. With that, as soon as they were all set up, Chibs took a look at the front door. There were two massive propane tanks that a pair of ghouls had put into place. One of them unscrewed the safety valve, with the slight hiss of gas coming out. That was all that they needed. A proper accelerant would do the trick. The other ghouls had placed tables down as defensive barricades, and were taking cover behind them with whatever rudimentary weapons they'd managed to get their hands on. They weren't going to be enough. But with a proper explosive kick…maybe they'd all have a chance.

Chibs wasn't a religious man. But he'd seen a service of sorts at the Castle when he was in the middle of receiving his "commission." The head of the service had crossed himself while in the middle of saying something that was important-sounding. Something about commending one's spirit, or something like that. Chibs looked around. He was about to go outside – by himself – to face off against a Deathclaw.

He figured that maybe crossing himself might not be a bad idea.

…

This was a terrible idea.

It was absolutely, without question, indefensibly terrible.

Private Rivia looked around, and tried to ignore the logical side of his brain screaming in protest. There was no reason for this. Their orders were to observe Quincy, and their plan was to drop off the geo-tracking equipment in order to give the Minutemen a better location to open fire with their artillery. They were supposed to go no further than the outskirts of the city, and that was that.

But when Cait kicked open the door, Rivia had to accept the reality.

They weren't outside of Quincy.

They were within its city limits.

There was an entire contingent of mercs, raiders, and other vile-looking figures the likes of which made Rivia blanch. Almost as if in unison, they looked up from their drinks and stared at the door in a mutual sense of disbelief. It was as if they couldn't believe what they were seeing.

Cait was standing in the doorway, her shotgun pumped. Her voice was low and quiet.

"Which one of you owns this shithole?"

Wordlessly, a few of the mercs pointed towards the man behind the bar. He was a big figure, clearly a captain or sergeant or whatever was the Quincy Boy equivalent. He had his arms crossed, a disbelieving smirk on his face.

The look was still on his face as Cait's shot struck him right between the eyes, killing him instantly.

Pandemonium. A few of the mercs fled out of the building screaming, convinced that (in their drug-addled state) a demon had just killed their boss. A few scrambled to get into defensive positions, so badly caught with their pants down they were. A few managed to get poorly aimed shots off.

But poorly-aimed wasn't good enough.

Rivia had been assigned to be Cait's second, mopping up anyone that wasn't killed in the initial burst. But to his amazement and slight horror, Cait seemed to be moving at a speed and rage that seemed inhuman. She was flipping tables, punching and kicking people, and pulling the trigger again and again.

And then, in a few horrifying moments, it was silent again. The only sound was their breathing.

Rivia counted. There were at least ten dead on the floor, and a few badly wounded. From the sounds outside, it was clear that a few of the initial escapees had run into Crow and Olympus. The house was theirs, and now they were within a few miles of the heart of Quincy.

"Search 'em for anything good." Cait said. Rivia blinked once.

"How…how did you do that?" He managed to ask.

Cait turned to look at him. She smirked slightly.

"I have my ways."

Rivia took that as an implicit warning not to pres further, and so he started to search the bodies like she asked.

He didn't notice Cait drop the used syringes out of her pocket and onto the ground, to be scattered amongst the personal effects of those that lay on the floor.


	11. Flash

A/N: I own nothing except the laptop upon which I wrote this story.

He gingerly stepped over the bodies, trying to ignore the smell. They were all dead, obviously. And what was even more obvious was that they had not died well.

At all.

"…Uh, ma'am?" Private Rivia managed to ask, looking at the blood-spattered woman who up until recently had been his commanding officer and not a berserker. "Are you alright?"

 _Are you alright?_

The words were impossibly muffled, as if someone had stuffed cotton in her ears. She could hear the roar in her ears, the same kind of thing that had happened every time that she'd stepped into the Combat Zone. Even his tone of voice was changed: it was distorted, like on a bass register far below what any human (and most super mutants) should sound like. Her heart was slamming in her chest, as if it was trying to break free.

And just like that, it wore off. The world came back into focus, and the sounds of life began to refill her ears. She slowly turned to face him, and blinked once.

"Yeah. I'm fine." She pointed around them. "They're not."

"You, um, really got them." Private Rivia said. "That's, uh, that's a lot of blood."

"It's war." Cait said flatly. "It happens. Especially when you're fighting for survival." She racked the shotgun she was carrying. "Especially when you use this bad boy."

"Jesus _shit._ "

They turned to see Olympus entering the bar, with Crow right behind him. The larger of the two mercenaries took a look around, his eyes wide in something like shock. Or was it horror?

"What the fuck…" He managed to speak again. He looked at Cait. "You did this? All of this? Yourself?"

"It's nothing new." Cait said. She was still breathing heavily. Normality was returning, but her heartrace was still through the roof. It would probably take some time for it to get better.

If it got better.

"Holy shit, thank god we got the deal we did out of you." Olympus said. He looked around, and then cleared his throat. "So, uh, what now?"

"What now?" Cait repeated. "We take the fight right to those bastards in Quincy. Keep pushing and pushing and choke 'em all."

"Yeah?" Olympus said. "That's the master plan? Just the four of us, well the three of us following you, right into a hellhole?" He paused. "You're crazier than I thought."

"Our original mission was to get the trackers into Quincy so our guns could blow them all to hell." Cait said. "I figure we just go deeper than what we needed to."

"Do we?" Olympus asked. "Cuz, uh, technically we're _in_ Quincy. Right on the edge, sure, but we're in Quincy."

"That true?" Crow asked. Private Rivia pulled out a map and checked it.

"Um…according to this chart, and it's been a few months – obviously – since this was drawn…but yeah. Yeah, we're in Quincy."

"Then why keep going?" Olympus asked. "We've accomplished what your bosses asked us to do. Just plant the trackers. Get a good reading and radio confirm, and then we can make a barbeque out here while the city burns."

Cait looked at the ground.

"No."

" _No?"_ Olympus asked. "What the hell do you _mean_ , no? We're _here._ We've cleared out a forward operating base. There is _no reason_ to risk things any further."

"We're only gonna chip away at things if we fire here." Cait said. "We need to go deeper. I wanna slap the tracker on one of those big-ass buildings out there." She pointed out the window, towards the looming towers in Quincy's heart. "We don't need to slap them on the wrist, we need to cut out their fucking throat!"

"You're going to get us _killed._ " Olympus said. "That is _not_ what your bosses want. They want a job _done_ , not improvised!"

"Oh, what the hell do you know?" Cait sneered. "You're just a damned freelancer, you don't know a thing about-"

"You don't know a _damn thing_ about what I know about." Olympus snarled. He sounded like an angered Yaoi Guai, and it startled everyone into silence. Even Cait was momentarily cowed. He looked her dead in the eye, and all of a sudden stood ramrod straight. "My name is John Stewart. Sergeant First Class, New California Republic 1st Highway Division."

" _Former_ Sergeant First Class." Crow said in a reminding tone.

"Doesn't fucking matter." Gideon said. "I've led men and women into battle before. I've _lost_ men and women in battle before. And I know what happens when you act on impulse, Cait."

Cait was about to open her mouth.

"Spare me the sass." John said. "You are a high-functioning tool, but you are _not_ a soldier. And a soldier _never_ puts their troops into a situation where people die needlessly. You had your _orders_ , and you cannot improvise just because your heart hurts over the death of someone that you cared about."

"You sound just like Danse." Cait sneered.

"I like him already. He sounds like a reasonable man." John snapped. "Cait, if you drag us into the depths of Quincy just because Colonel Garvey is dead, you won't have to grieve long because you'll _meet him_ soon. I signed up for the money, sure. But I also signed up because it sounded like your Commonwealth army-"

"Minutemen." Priviate Rivia offered in a small voice.

"Whatever." John said. "I signed up for this because I'm only a mercenary by convenience. I am a _soldier_ , and I know that I will spend the rest of my life fighting for something. It just seemed like your Commonwealth is something worth fighting for…but if you're the type of person that they put in command, what does that say about the upper structure?"

"Don't you _dare_ insult Nate." Cait snarled. "You say another word about him, and I will fucking end you."

"Does he know this side of you?" He asked. "Does he know about your temper? Because if he does…" Another thought seemed to cross his mind. "How long have you been in the field since the war started?"

Cait was silent.

"Tell me."

"She, um, hasn't." Private Rivia said. "She's been at the Castle, either training herself or training others."

"Then your 'Nate' is exactly as smart as I thought he was." John said. "He didn't want you to be in charge of this mission, because he knew you were going to let your emotions get in the way. He did because he's desperate, isn't he?" He paused. "You want his faith in you to be rewarded? Then _stand aside_ , and finish your mission."

The tension could be cut with a knife.

…

He was sweating so bad he thought he was melting. He walked slowly out the door, looking around. Salem had gone frightfully quiet. There wasn't even the chatter of gunfire from Quincy Boys; either they had retreated…or they had been taken care of. Either by Barney Rook and MacCready, or the Deathclaws. He hoped it was the former.

That at least would have been quicker.

He heard something. He snapped around to look down the alleyway, his rifle aimed towards the darkness. There was nothing there. Nothing but a few trash cans, some of which had been knocked over. Probably by a radrat or something.

He exhaled. He turned around.

And there it was.

Down the road, standing motionless. An alpha Deathclaw was contemplating him, its horns mighty and curling around its head. Its teeth the size of small knives, and its claws the size of his forearm. At least. Its skin was mottled and black.

Wait, that wasn't black. That was dark-red. And wet. It was blood.

He fought the urge to vomit in the street.

For an eternity they stared at each other. There was a silence greater than any that existed in the world before, as if waiting for the most terrible explosion of noise. He realized that he, too, was motionless. For a second, he wondered if Deathclaws couldn't see you if you didn't move.

The creature's threatening growl disabused him of that notion. It wasn't that it couldn't see him. It was just waiting to see what he would do next.

Chibs had once read of old animals, called cats, that apparently liked to play with their food. They'd paw aimlessly at the little creatures that they hunted, called mice, until they got bored. And then the claws would come out, and the playful batting would be surgical and quick. It would strike the mice around the neck, ending the game almost as soon as it was started. The cat wouldn't start eating the mouse right away, though, his mother told him. Sometimes they'd just gnaw at it. As if to showcase how pathetically insignificant the creature really was.

Chibs swallowed, though his throat was dead-dry. He figured he had a few seconds left before the creature would tire of this standoff. He was too far away from the house where the ghouls were. Not to just run there and hopefully set off the bombs that now lined the front entrance. But eventually after he was dead, the Deathclaw would smell the blood of the wounded…

As if in a dream, Chibs thought he saw something by the Deathclaw's feet. They were half-buried in the dirt and sludge that passed for a Salem road these days, and for a moment he had thought it was the shell of a dead Mirelurk. But then he saw that it was a fuel drum.

And it was leaking.

The Deathclaw let out a mighty roar, tired of this pointless game of chicken with the pudgy creature staring it down. It bared its teeth, drew its claws, and prepared to leap towards the newest of its meals.

At the exact same moment, Chibs turned his assault rifle towards the beast and fired.

There was a terrific explosion, returning noise to the world. The fuel drum combusted in a burst of fire and smoke, showering the Deathclaw with molten soup that had once been gasoline. The creature roared in annoyance, and then in pain as it registered that a shard of the drum had pierced its left knee, rendering the joint effectively useless. It looked to pull the shard out, but then it saw that its prey was running. Roaring in anger at the trick, the Deathclaw pursued its dinner.

Chibs didn't look back. He ran as hard as he could, his heartbeat thundering in his chest and a roaring in his ears. He knew that the Deathclaw could no longer run, but that only marginally favored his odds. He raced for the ghoul safehouse, dropping his rifle to lighten the load. As he got closer to the door, he saw a few of the healthy ghouls there, beckoning and screaming for him to get inside.

"RUN, SMOOTHSKIN! DON'T LOOK BACK! WHATEVER YOU DO, _**DON'T YOU LOOK BACK!**_ "

He was at the porch. He was on the first step. He heard the Deathclaw roar directly on top of him. He instinctively ducked. A massive claw buried itself in the wood directly where his head had been. He slammed the door behind him, realizing that he was screaming the entire time.

" **GOOOOOOOOO!** " He shouted to the ghouls managing the explosives.

There was a terrific crash. The Deathclaw was tearing the door off its hinges. It was an old building. As it yanked the door loose, the wall came down on it and the trim clattered on its head. It roared in annoyance, and tried to pry itself loose. It was standing right on top of the detonators. But they weren't exploding.

"Pull them!" Chibs bellowed. "Blow it up!"

"They're stuck!" One of the ghouls shouted back. "The detonator's jammed!"

There were maybe a few seconds left before it got free and devoured them all.

He'd never been a brave man before. He'd always known he was a coward. He knew that he was most likely going to die an ignominious death. Even ex-raiders are doomed to that sort of fate.

But as he primed the grenade in his belt, knowing full well he was within the blast radius of the wired explosives, he figured that maybe this would be a good death.

"Get to cover!" He shouted to the others. He hoped they listened.

There was a crashing sound as the Deathclaw wrenched itself free of the debris. It turned towards him, a murderous bloddlust in its eyes. For some reason, he felt strangely at peace.

"Smile, you son of a bitch."

He tossed the grenade. It rolled under the Deathclaw's feet, igniting the explosives and everything else. He saw the beast torn asunder by the detonation. The fire and fury raced towards him, like a sunblast.

Before he even felt the heat, everything went black.

Perhaps that was a form of mercy, in the end.


	12. Rumbling in the Dark

A/N: I own nothing except the laptop upon which I wrote this story.

He had witnessed the blast from the safety of the clock tower. It had been a titanic plume of fire and smoke. One minute, the Deathclaw was trying to fight its way through the doorway. The next, its head was spiraling through the air – along with other bits and pieces – and landing somewhere down the street. Privately, MacCready was kicking himself. If _only_ he had been a little faster. He'd had that Deathclaw dead to rights in the moments right before the explosion. If only. If only…

" _Chiiiiiiibs!_ " Gunny wailed over the radio. " _Ah hell, I gotta go save him!_ "

" _Cool your jets, boy!_ " Barney Rook snapped back. " _…There ain't nothing you can do for him. He did what he had to do. That boy…braver than I ever would have thought._ "

There was a pause. And then the radio crackled to life again.

" _The Brotherhood will commend his sacrifice._ " Sergeant Mattis, the leader of the Brotherhood attachment in Salem, said. " _That was…more than we ever could have asked of anyone._ "

MacCready felt a sinking pit in his stomach. The day was done. The battle was over. The Deathclaws and Stingwings had done their job tearing into the Quincy Boys that had come into the city, and they'd held the line…but The Slog was probably ruined, and now they had a lot of refugee ghouls that they needed to care for. And they were down a man. What precious few of those they already had.

He let his feet dangle over the ledge as he sat back down in his chair, and turned on the radio. It was time to let the Castle know about it all.

…

Jonathan listened quietly, jotting down notes as the speaker listed off everything that went down. He turned towards the General, and nodded. He'd gotten it all.

"Thank you, Salem." The General said after a moment's silence. "Get some rest, Robert. You all need it."

" _Understood, sir. I'll make sure of that."_

The line shut off. There was a hanging silence in the air. Danse turned towards the General.

"So we've lost The Slog."

"We've lost the Slog." Nate repeated. He shook his head. "As if things could get any worse for us. Jesus Christ..." He rubbed his forehead in frustration. "We need to finish things _now._ Before they get even worse than this."

"With respect, sir, that's the kind of thing that the Man in Black is baiting you towards." Danse said. "He wants you to overreach. He wants you to meet him, so that he can break you."

"At what cost, Danse?" Nate said. "I can't keep losing battles like this!"

"But so long as you are only losing battles, you have the war within your reach." Danse said. "Don't forget that. They want you to."

"So what would you have me do?" Nate asked.

"Endure, sir." Danse said. "You're the one that's going to have to make the tough decisions. And what a civilian might want is not the same as what you need to do for the survival of the Commonwealth. That's what matters in the end; there is no point dealing with the fallout of the lost Slog if there _is_ no Commonwealth in which to debate the issue." Danse cleared his throat. "Trust the mission that we've sent Cait on. Once they activate the tracker, it will be much easier to go through with the operation."

The General was silent for a long time. And then he walked back into his office.

"Leave him." Danse said to Jonathan, who looked towards the General's office with a degree of concern. "He needs a moment to himself." He looked around. "We all do. Jonathan, take a break for a bit. Go have a smoke or something to eat. I can man the radio, and deal with the clerical work."

Jonathan did a double take. But then he nodded gratefully. He turned over the headset and equipment to Danse, and then shuffled away. He walked past the mess hall and went for the dorms. No doubt he was finally going to get himself a decent amount of sleep. Danse watched him go, and then put the headset on and plugged himself into the main Minuteman radio network.

"Baseplate to all stations, report please." Danse said. He got out a legal pad and something to write with. "Requesting status report, over."

As the first of Minuteman holdings began to crackle in, Danse did not give a second's thought towards how much information there was to process. He just knew that he had a job to do. And he would get right to work.

…

"I don't like this."

"I know you don't. But you're doing the right thing."

"Fuck you."

"I don't mind cursing, ma'am. So long as it keeps us all alive."

"…And paid."

"Preferably paid, yes."

"Do you mercs ever worry about things outside of money?"

"It is something we always consider, Rivia."

"Shut up!"

Cait growled, and began fiddling with the tracking equipment that they had been lugging around since they'd left the Castle. With this material, they could properly track the inner parts of Quincy, and with that information…

Cait felt her skin crawling with the thought of the sheer tonnage of artillery that would be striking this wretched place.

"Got it." She said. She flipped a switch on the device, and soon a low humming noise filled the air. "I think it's trackin'. Should take some time, though. Might wanna post up somewhere around here and wait."

"What does it do, exactly?" Rivia asked.

"I think it works like a scanner." Cait said. "It maps the city, and its local coordinates, and then that info gets fed to the computer terminals that help run our bombing stuff at the Castle. And that gives them a better idea of how and where to hit."

"Sounds high-tech." Rivia said.

"Not really." Olympus said. "Just enough to get the job done."

"That's all we need." Cait said. "Just need to get the job done."

All of a sudden, Crow whistled from her perch up high in the saloon. She had seen something coming from afar. Without a word, the others picked up their weapons and took ready position to defend the tracking device.

"How long is that thing gonna need, ma'am?" Rivia asked.

There was a whistle from up high, in a series of short and staccato bursts. Crow sounded like birds chirping.

"There's a party of something or someone coming." Olympus said.

"Then it's not gonna be ready in time." Cait said. "Get ready to shoot."

They fell silent, taking position behind the counter as well as by the windows. Somewhere up high Crow was positioned, no doubt ready to peg the unknown trespasser with a single shot. Olympus was crouched by the doorway, his megaton hammer readied in his left hand. It was because of the power armor that he could swing it so easily, but Cait wondered if he was perhaps strong enough to lift the thing by himself.

There was a shuffling of feet outside the door. An unbearable tension hung over the room. But then there was a sound, akin to a throat being cleared.

"I'm gonna open the door now. And if you're smart you won't immediately try to plug me." It was a man's voice, and it was far more confident than it had any right to be. Everyone in the bar looked at each other and exchanged a brief glance of disbelief. _Who the hell was the idiot with those stones?_ But Olympus shrugged. If the speaker had a death wish, they could always try to start something they couldn't finish once they were inside.

So he opened the door.

A tall figure walked in, and immediately shut the door behind him. There was a pregnant pause of silence. And then Cait found her voice.

"…Aren't you that Clockwork Dick?"

"It's synth _detective,_ jackass." Nick Valentine said. He lit a cigarette, and placed it between his lips. "Nice to see that you haven't changed in the last few months, Cait."

Private Rivia snuck a glance at his commanding officer. She was completely and unquestionably dumbfounded. A slightly slack-jawed expression on her face, and in a rare display of poor firearms control she was holding it loose in her hands. Any looser and it might fall out of her hands and clatter to the floor. He'd never seen her this shocked.

"You, uh, know this 'bot?" Olympus asked.

"We have a history, yeah." Nick said. He looked over his shoulder. "Though you're not exactly in a position to critique mechanical figures, Mr. Power Armor."

"Dang, 'bot can throw some fire…" Olympus muttered. At this, Nick turned to face him.

"You seem like a good kid, so I'll ask this nicely: when you refer to me, the name's _Nick._ Understood?"

Olympus was cowed into respectful silence.

Finally, Cait found her voice.

"Where…the _hell_ have you been?"

Nick gazed out into the dark, somewhere across the horizon.

"A harbor far from the shore, dark and quiet and gloomy. It rubbed off on me, I guess. Dark have been my dreams of late." He blinked, and looked back at Cait. "I guess you could say it was a matter of personal discovery. It was personal, I discovered something about myself, and now I'm back where I belong. Though…it sure seems like things have gone to hell in a handbasket since I was gone." He took a seat on one of the old wicker chairs in the bar. "And it sure seems like it went to hell in a handbasket _here_. What did these blockheads do to deserve…this…?" He trailed off, and reached down to the ground.

"Why don't you all leave me with the fearless leader of yours."

Private Rivia blinked, but then nodded dumbly. He gestured for Olympus to follow him, and the two of them made their way upstairs to inform Crow about this strange turn of events.

As soon as they had left, the silence reigned in the bar. And then Nick broke it.

"Nate would be disappointed, Cait." He said, holding up one of the used syringes on the floor.

"…I don't know what that is. Must've been dropped by one of these bastards." She said.

"And I'm a clockwork dick after all." Nick said. "You and I both know that there's nothing that escapes my sight. There's a reason I was the best in the Commonwealth at what I do." He leaned back in his chair, and the look on his face was one of genuine concern. "What's going on, Cait? Have you started using again?"

"It's all comin' apart at the seams, Nick." Cait said.

"So am I, you know." Nick said, gesturing to his frayed skin covering and chipped paint. "But then again, somehow I feel like I've stepped into something far deeper than the simple sight of you relapsing on Psycho."

"We have a mission, Nick."

"I'm sure it can wait a few minutes." He said. "Otherwise you would have already took this group of yours to get on the move." He leaned in slightly. "Talk to me. How long has it been? Weeks? Months? Since the day I left?"

"It was this _one fucking time._ " Cait snapped. "I needed the extra boost, because you see the amount of bodies. There's like 15 guys in here. I couldn't do that by myself without help."

"…You did all of this by yourself?" Nick asked. "You didn't have any help from that motley duo here, or even that sniper up top?" At her silence, he smirked. "I saw her. She's not nearly as good at hiding as she thinks." But then he turned serious again. "Cait…what did you _take?_ Psycho? Jet? Both?"

"…A double shot of Psycho." She said. Then she shivered, beginning to convulse. Her eyes began to glaze over, and she slid out of her chair and collapsed to the ground.

Nick sprang out of his chair, and immediately rushed over to her. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a basic med kit. He rifled through it, and pulled out the one Addictol syringe he kept in there. He jammed the needle into her vein, and pressed the plunger. There was a terrible silence, as Cait continued to shudder. But then the convulsions began to stop, and her breathing returned to a normal, slow cadence. Her eyes cleared up, and she looked up at the synth.

"Nick…I'm all fucked up."

"You're okay now." Nick said. "Now I know that you haven't been using since you got clean: that much Psycho was a walk in the park for you in the past…you must have forgotten how high your tolerance was, didn't you?" But then his relieved smile faded. "Cait, you nearly overdosed on Psycho. Just for the sake of killing these mopes? What did they do to warrant you taking such a stupid risk?"

Cait was still a little watery-eyed from the affect effects of the Addictol, but it was also clear that she was tearing up.

"They killed Garvey, Nick. Fuckin' Preston got pegged by these fuckin' Quincy Boys."

Nick was silent for a moment.

"…I had hoped it wasn't true." He said. "But I heard the rumor as I was sailing back from where I was. How are the others taking it?"

"I dunno, Nick, how the fuck do you THINK they're taking it?" Cait snapped. "We're all comin' to fuckin' pieces cuz of that goddamned Man in Black and his goddamned Quincy Boys, and then of all the people to get shot it's the one guy who never did a bad thing to anyone. Why not me? A fuckup like me? That makes sense. But not Preston. Why the fuck Preston?"

Nick placed a calming hand on her shoulders.

"Cait…beating yourself up isn't going to bring him back." He looked over towards the tracker, which was whirring itself into functionality. "Is that the thing that you were supposed to bring here?" Cait nodded silently. "Well…it looks like it's about to set itself up."

At that moment, there was a small *ding* noise, and a blue light began to pulse gently from the top of the device.

Wordlessly, Cait and Nick stared at the tracker. And then back at each other. Nick spoke for them both.

"I think it's time to report back to your superiors."

A/N: Starting to approach the endgame of the story…


End file.
